


The Curious Case of the Horse in the Night

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Actual plot, Case Fic, Crack, Eventual Johnlock, Fluff, Funny, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fic based on a case written by the one and only Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Silver Blaze. It is adapted in the style of BBC Sherlock.<br/>Theres been a murder and Sherlock is excited. Antics ensue.  </p><p>The title is inspired by the quote, 'The curious incident of the dog in the night-time', which actually comes from this case! (The one by Arthur Conan Doyle, not me. I'm not that good.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Johns alarm clock beeped twice. And then twice more. It repeated beeping until John groggily rolled over and slammed his fist down on it to shut it up. 

Rising from his bed in a sleep deprived haze he began to dress. 

As much as John enjoyed running around London until god knows when in the morning, having to then get up for work at the clinic after only a few hours of sleep was, unsurprisingly, less enjoyable. The only positive thing about the time between Sherlock’s cases was that John was able to get to bed at a reasonable time and get more than three hours sleep each night-- Until, of course, the boredom ended up getting to Sherlock, causing him to play his violin  _loudly_  at half one in the morning. Or shooting the wall with John’s gun which- to exactly no one’s surprise- was even louder. 

John was unsure of which he found more annoying. On the one hand, being awoken by gun shots reminded John far too much of his old army nightmares, but Sherlock would soon be out of bullets and peace would be restored to the flat. His violin-playing, while quieter, had a high likeliness of continuing for hours on end.

 

Shuffling down stairs he met Sherlock pacing around the living room in his deep blue dressing gown. Yawning, John flicked on the kettle.

'Tea?' He asked, not bothering to look up from the toaster. He was met with a noncommittal grunt. Deciding Sherlock could  _make his own damn tea for once,_  he only poured out one mug. 

Half way through his toast, Sherlock received a phone call. John groaned inwardly. 

A few minutes later, when John was on his way out of the flat, Sherlock finished the call.

'John-' Sherlock turned from the window he hadn’t been looking out of to face John, his tone politely inquiring.

'No.' John said flatly, not looking up from the jacket he was zipping up.

'But  _John,_ ' Sherlock said, stepping forwards, covering half the living room with his long stides.

'But nothing  _Sherlock_ ' 

And with that John walked out of the flat and hailed a cab. Sherlock glowered at him from the window of their living room, quietly murmuring profanities under his breath. John pretended not to notice.

The cab ride was a pleasant break for John. He tilted his head back against the rest, enjoying the peace and quiet inside the cab from the hassle of London outside.

During the ride John received a flood of texts from Sherlock, varying from demanding his presence to complaints about being ignored. 

The buzzing from his phone became so frequent that John turned it off to save himself the headache. Sherlock knew he had to work. He had _told_ Sherlock he had to work! ‘Bloody git never listens, anyway.’ John complained mentally, huffing a laugh and shaking his head at the pure inconsiderateness of his flatmate.  

 

Sarah smiled at him as he arrived and greeted him with a concerned, 'you look tired.'

'I  _feel_  tired,' John retorted, 'but don't worry, I'll try not to fall asleep during the day... Not again, anyway.'

She laughed and shook her head slightly, 'You need to take a break. All that almost being-killed all the time thing really can't be good for you.' 

Also laughing, John shrugged. 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger!'

'John, if that's your best medical advice, I'm worried for the future of your career.' Sarah said sternly, her nose flaring slightly as she tried to conceal a smirk.

Chuckling, John turned and walked to his office. 

 

The Morning continued as it normally did, with nothing of particular interest: there was the usual bout of patients with complaints of colds, hypochondriac mothers diagnosing their children with almost any condition under the sun, and everything in between. 

 

Right before John planned on taking his lunch, there was a lull in patients that had him turning to his phone, deciding he really couldn’t ignore Sherlock for much longer without regretting the consequences.  He snorted in surprise and amusement as, the second it turned on a stream of texts flooded in. 42 unready messages. What could possibly be important enough to text him 42 times?! John forgot about his irritation with Sherlock momentarily, to marvel at the erratic behaviour of the man instead.

Flicking through the messages he rolled his eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of his flatmate.   

All of the texts ran around the same theme of: 

_**Lestrade has a case, I'll be at Scotland Yard. May be back late- SH** _

__

_**Case proves interesting, come to the yard as soon as possible- SH** _

__

_**Come now- SH** _

__

_**Why aren't you here yet?-SH** _

__

_**Hurry up** _ **- _SH_**

__

_**Anderson is infuriating. You should be here to shut him up** _ **- _SH_**

__

_**JOHN** _ **- _SH_**

 

John had frequently informed Sherlock that he didn’t constantly need to add ‘SH’ to the end of his messages, as he was well aware of who was messaging. John wondered if he could _ever_ mistake any texts from Sherlock as anyone else.

Scrolling down, John spotted a few texts from Lestrade. As they progressed, they became more colourful variations of:

 _Sherlock is being a MASSIVE pain in the arse. Please hurry up_.

The last message from Lestrade was from around ten minutes ago. John decided he really couldn't leave them with Sherlock for much longer. He had half a day anyway, and seeing as there was no one else waiting, he decided he could skip lunch and head straight off. Why the man couldn’t look after himself for one day, John would never understand. John would also never understand his inability to stand up to Sherlock’s demands of his presence for more than a few hours; but he would also never think about it, so it didn’t really affect him.

He peered round Sarah's door, saying, 'I'm off now, I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Already?' She replied distractedly, still concentrating on the work in front of her.

'Yeah, I've got, erm, pressing business to attend to..' John cleared his throat.

'Ahh!' Sarah stated looking up now, quirking an eyebrow, 'Sherlock business. I see!' 

Unable to think of a convincing lie, John nodded. His eyes, for some reason, unwilling to meet Sarah’s and see the pointed look she was undoubtedly giving him. 

'Well, don't let me keep you. When Sherlock calls...' 

John opened his mouth, about to deny the implied  _'away you must go_ ' but realised that there was no point, she wouldn't believe him anyway. Shrugging; he waved and left muttering half formed denials under his breath, more to himself than Sarah.

Outside the clinic the day was clearer and warmer than it had been that morning. John hoped that some nicer weather would soon be on its way- but he wasn’t going to hold his breath. Blinking in the bright light, John hailed a cab. Jumping in the back he called to the cabbie 'Scotland Yard, quick as you can.' 


	2. Sherlock Holmes: More Important than the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives at Scotland Yard. Sherlock is excitable.  
> In other words, Lestrade has a case.

On entering Scotland Yard, John was met by an excitable mass of raven black curls, over-dramatic cheekbones and a long coat with its collar turned up as Sherlock jumped from the desk he’d been sitting at.

 

'Ah, John! You're here. Finally.' He exclaimed.  

'Yes, nice to see you too, Sherlock.’ John said, in a falsely bright tone. He looked round to where Sherlock had been sitting, scanning the screen on the computer he’d been working on, ‘Hang on- is that the sports page?' John asked, looking bemusedly round at Sherlock. 

'Yes, it's-'

'For a case?' John interjected. 'Really? There was me thinking you'd suddenly become a sports fanatic!' John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Realising he was going to get no explanation and only a set of raised eyebrows, John added 'And I do have a life outside of following you around on cases, would you believe.' He folded his arms, but his tone was chastising rather than irritated.

'Yes, I know,' said Sherlock, smiling falsely, 'you often go and get milk, too.'

Johns frown soon turned into a grin at the teasing gleam in Sherlock’s eyes.

‘Any way John, much more important things to worry about than milk!’ Sherlock said, frowning at John as if it had been him who had brought it up.

Sherlock turned and called to Lestrade before John could reply. Lestrade was on the phone at that moment, but Sherlock either did not notice, or did not care.

'Lestrade- get over here!'

Lestrade gave Sherlock an irritated look, gesturing pointedly at the phone. He looked over to John and they shared an understanding look that plainly said _bloody idiot._ Sherlock sighed loudly.

John turned to Sherlock, shaking his head slightly at the childish reaction, and looked up at the pouting man. 'So, what have you been harassing me for half a day about then?'

Sherlock glared at Lestrade before looking down at John, 'Lestrade will explain when he decides to be useful and get off the phone.'

 Lestrade ended his call, dropping the receiver down onto the desk phone, and called across the room, 'John, thank god! Our Sherlock interpreter had finally arrived.’ He made his way swiftly over from his desk, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand as he did. ‘He’s been refusing to explain himself until you arrived' John noticed Lestrade looked worn out, and came to the conclusion that he wasn't the only one who'd been pissed off at Sherlock this morning. 

He slowly turned his head, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock, who pointedly didn't meet his eye. 'Huh, if I didn't know you better, I would have thought you were being considerate Sherlock!' Sherlock sniffed and did not reply. 

‘You do know the whole world doesn't revolve around you, don't you Sherlock?' Said Lestrade, Turing his attention from John, back to Sherlock, yawning slightly as he did so.

'Don't- you'll destroy the delusion he's built up about himself, Lestrade!' John said in mock horror. 

'Oh! Sorry Sherlock! I forgot, when the solar system isn't busy revolving around the Earth, it's around you!' Apologised Lestrade, with far too much sincerity, grinning at John. 

John sniggered, adding, 'you should put that on your website Sherlock, _'the world’s only consulting detective; more important than the sun_.' It was far too easy to mock Sherlock when there was someone else around who knew what he could be like.

'Yes, when you've both quite finished,' Sherlock snapped, 'there is slightly more pressing business waiting.'

Lestrade and John both chuckled; a grumpy Sherlock who wasn’t getting his way was an amusing sight for two people who’ve had to deal with him all morning.

'Yeah, sorry. Greg?' Said John, flicking an apologetic look over to Sherlock, whose mouth twitched slightly when he saw. 

'Can't you just explain it, Sherlock? I do actually have more important things to do than repeatedly explain things to you.'

'Well, you could always hurry up and tell us- and then do whatever less interesting thing it is you need to do- or you could complain and argue about telling us, proceed to tell us and then get on with whatever you please. Which will it be?' Sherlock said smartly, tipping his chin slightly so he looked down his nose as Lestrade, cocking an eyebrow.

Sighing, Lestrade rolled his eyes in defeat, knowing there was no point in arguing with him. John bit his lip to hide his snigger.

'Ok, ok. Well,' he began, standing slightly straighter and turning so he was facing both of the men. 'There's been a murder-' 

'Ahh!' exclaimed John, now understanding Sherlock’s excitable attitude. He should have known better really, the last time he had received forty two consecutive messages in the space of a few hours for anything less than a murder was when Sherlock had stolen John’s pyjamas out of the washing pile, to put out a ‘ _tiny fire, practically nothing really_ ’ that he had ‘ _accidentally’_ started in the kitchen. John’s pyjamas had subsequently joined the kitchen in being on fire, and John had sulked about it for a good day, Sherlock continually texting him apologies mixed in with requests for him to come and help him fix the kitchen before Mrs Hudson found out.

'Johnson Straker was killed yesterday in the late evening. Mr Straker was a retired jockey, who, until his death, worked as a professional horse trainer for the acclaimed horse racer, Colonel Ross.' 

Lestrade paused and waited as John nodded along before continuing. 

‘Now, I'm sure you're aware of the Grand National coming up soon?'

John lips quirked. The Grand National had hardly been out of the news for the past weeks, from odds on different horses to who was going with whom and what they'd be wearing. It was fast approaching, John was unsure of the date, but knew it was taking place next week. 

England's finest- or, at least _rich_ \- all gathered for a day of fun, champagne and betting on horses, in John’s opinion, all with ridiculous names. 

'Well, I don't know if you follow it,’ Lestrade asked ‘but have you heard of the Silver Blaze?'

John furrowed his forehead as he tried to remember.

'Anyway, he belongs to Colon Ross, and is favourite at the National. Tipped to win, and already has a bunch of medals and trophies under his belt- well, saddle.'

Lestrade paused before continuing. 

'Well, he did. Silver Blaze was kidnapped on the night that Straker was killed.' 

John raised his eyebrows, nodding. He looked over to Sherlock who was still intently watching Lestrade. 

'So..' John prompted. 

'Well, seeing at the importance -' Lestrade began

' _Richness_ ' interjected Sherlock. 

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, before turning back to John and replying 'Well, let’s say the _influence_ of Colonel Ross. Anyway, instead of leaving this to his local force, he requested the matter be handled by Scotland Yard.'

'And so Scotland Yard requested the help of Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock said smugly.

'Yes, god help us...' Lestrade said, shaking his head in slight disbelief.

'So,' said Sherlock, straightening up and now taking control of the conversation,

'We've got a murderer and thief. It’s obvious who ever took the horse has a link on the outcome of the Grand National. Either they have a bet placed against the horse, or have a rival horse in the race.' 

'That's still a whole lot of people.' John pointed out

'Hmm. Quite, of course. But this. This is something different.' Sherlock mused, hunching his shoulders slightly as he thought out loud,

'It’s one thing to take a rival horse out action, but quite another to murder a man to do so.' 

'In the eyes of the law at any rate, probably not those of Colonel Ross..' murmured Lestrade. 

'Anyway. We're not going to be able to do much else here.' Said Sherlock, snapping out of his reverie. Sherlock swivelled his head toward John and slowly looked him up and down.

'John, how do you feel about a holiday?'

'I’m sorry?' John started, slightly surprised at Sherlock’s apparently considerate offer.

'A short break in the country. I'm sure Sarah wouldn't mind. She's probably been telling you that you need some time off.' Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes slightly.

'I think her idea of time off and yours are quite different, Sherlock.' John said, rising an eyebrow.

'Well?' Sherlock tilted his head down to look John in the eye, flashing him a charming smile.

'It's more than fine by me, but I'll have to see if I can get some time off at the clinic.' John said, returning his grin.

'Excellent.' Sherlock’s smile spread across his face, before it disappeared as he straightened up.

'Uh, where to exactly?' 

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, raising his eyebrows in question.

'Town in Dartmoor. King's Pyland.' Lestrade replied.

John nodded. Then he paused. Furrowing his brow, he asked,

'Has this case been in the news at all recently?' John was sure that he had heard that place name recently. Being a more unusual name, he thought it couldn't have come up in everyday conversation. Now he thought of it, he was sure that he'd heard it mentioned with the horse trainers name...

'No, it's all being kept hush hush.’ Lestrade said, furrowing his brow at Johns question. ‘The Colonel doesn't want anyone getting wind of it, in case it affects the odds on the horse.' 

'Well, if there's no horse to bet on, I bet it would..' Said John, shaking off the feeling. 

'So do try and get this sorted as soon as possible' Lestrade rquested. 

'We'll catch the train there tomorrow.' Sherlock said.

'I’ll let the local force down there know. Tell them not to arrest you both.'

'You not going to go down then?' Inquired John. 

'I will, but I won't be able to get down there until later. Got to-'

'Has the body been sent to Barts?' Sherlock interjected.

'Huh?' Lestrade wrinkled his nose, slightly disorientated from being cut off mid flow.

'The body. Strakers.' Sherlock repeated.

'Oh, Yeah, arrived there not long back.' Lestrade said, his face clearing of confusion.  

'Good.' Sherlock turned to go. 'Coming John?'

'Yeah, coming now.' John followed the billowing coat out if the office, briefly waving at Lestrade and giving him an apologetic look for Sherlock’s bluntness.

Lestrade, who was used to it by now, simply smirked ruefully. 

When he caught up to Sherlock, who had pulled out his phone and now had his fingers flying across the key pad, on the pavement outside of the Yard, John said, 

'Actually, I better head to the clinic and ask Sarah if I can have that time off. Might stay there the afternoon, make up for some of the time. Probably be more useful there than at Bart’s. 

Sherlock peered at him, 'You're always useful.' He said, slightly confused.

'Huh?' John was slightly taken aback by this apparent compliment from him.

'Yes. You listen, and don't babble half as much as Molly.' He said, tucking his phone into his pocket and stretched out his other hand to hail a cab, not looking at John.

John decided to take that as a compliment anyway and grinned. 'Well, I might meet you there later if I get everything done.' 

Sherlock nodded as a cab pulled up in front of them. 'Yes. That would be, uh, good. You take this one.' 

'Cheers!' John called as he jumped into the car. 

Not until the car had driven off did John realise what Sherlock had just done. He'd been nicer than ususal about the cab situation, which meant it was possible he was buttering John up so he would let him bring Straker’s head back. John grabbed his phone in horror, hissing as soon as Sherlock picked up,

 'You are NOT bringing his head back!'

And hung up quickly before Sherlock could argue back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, a chapter with things that happen!  
> If you spot any mistakes, just say in the comments and I'll sort them out.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Patient at the Clinic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realises he's met Mr Straker before.  
> He then meets him again on a table in Barts...

John clambered out of the cab as it pulled up outside of the clinic. A few minutes later he was standing outside of Sarah’s office, knocking on the door. Walking in, the woman in question looked up in surprise.

'Back already?!' 

'Uh, yeah, actually; I've got something to ask,' John said, gritting his teeth in apprehension, wondering how best to go about asking.

'Depends what it is..' She said, furrowing her brow suspiciously. 

'Nothing life threatening, I promise! I was actually wondering if I could have the rest of the week off?' John said, smiling hopefully.

John was sure that the case wouldn't take more than a few days, but he would probably need some time to recover after. And he did need a break after all.  

Sarah looked through the clinics’ staff rota, tapping her fingers on the edge of her desk. 

'I can cover some other shifts, make up the days..' John offered, his voice trailing off.

'Yeah, looks like that should be ok. Taking my advice on some time off, then?' Sarah said, looking up from the rota, tipping her head to the side.

'Uhh, you could say that.' John said, nodding his head, but not quite meeting her eye.  

Sarah raised an eyebrow, ' so long as it _is_ a break, and you’re not running around trying to not get yourself killed...' She said firmly.

‘Sarah! Why would you even think that?!’John said in a hurt voice.

 Sarah’s eyebrow rose further. ‘Anyway, cheers. I'll stay on today, get a few things finished.' John said, looking down at his watch, wondering how long Sherlock would still be at Bart’s.

With that John returned to his office to sort out some of the paper work he'd been putting off all week. John made a cup of tea before sitting at his desk, in an attempt to help keep him awake.

Sighing at the prospect of work, John reached over to turn his computer on. As he did, he caught the edge of his mug, toppling it over and spilling the hot contents over himself and his desk. _'Damn it!_ ' He cursed loudly, jumping from his chair and snatching up some of the papers in danger of being drowned in the tea from the desk. After clearing up the worst of the tea, he looked at the ones at the bottom of the pile, hoping they had escaped the flood. His eyes skimmed over the writing on the papers, checking that the ink hadn’t run. They widened in shock. 

Dropping the papers, he scrabbled through the pile, pulling one from the pile and holding it in front of his face. He slammed it on the table, and grappled with his jacket to wrench his phone from a pocket. 

'Sherlock, what was-' John said, as soon as Sherlock picked up his phone.

'Listen, John, I _promise_ I won't bring home anyth-' Sherlock began calmly.

'No, shut up- what was the name of the murdered man?' John said, interrupting Sherlock.

'Jonathan Straker, wh-' Sherlock replied, confused.

'Are you still at barts?'

'Yes, Joh-'

John hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket and the papers on the table and raced out of the office. 

Not stopping as he strode past Sarah's door, he simply called out; 'See you on Monday!'

'Done already- John?' Sarah began in a worried tone, and stood up to see what he was doing, but John didn't reply. 

  

Getting to St Barts as quick as he could, he hurried into the familiar lab. Molly greeted him, straightening up from the microscope she had been poring over. 'Oh, John! Sherlock said to tell you he's in the mortuary.' She said brightly.

'Cheers Molly!' John called over his shoulder, promptly exiting the room. 

 Bursting into the morgue, he found Sherlock intently studying a cadaver lying on a table.

'John! Good, now come over and look-' Sherlock said, not looking round.

'Hang on, Sherlock; I've got something to show you.'

Sherlock looked over quizzically. Striding over, John pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket. 'Here.' He passed the papers over. Sherlock furrowed his brow questioningly, but John displayed nothing on his face. Sherlock’s eyes flicked down at the papers, and back to John shaking his head in confusion.

‘They’re from last week. Just read them.’ John insisted.

 

_'Oh, John, you've got this one last patient before you go. I've got his records here- they're not on file.' Sarah said, leaning around his office door frame._

_‘Huh?’John said, still concentrating on the work he was doing._

_‘Oh, this isn’t his local a GP- I had them send them over.’ Sarah clarified._

_'Oh, cheers.' John looked up and took the paper work from her hand._

_'King's Pyland.’ He read out from the papers. ‘Where's that then?'_

_'I’m not sure- in the country somewhere. He's in the waiting room, should I send him?' Sarah said, shrugging._

_'Yeah, go ahead. Thanks.' John replied, dropping the papers on the pile and turning back to what he was working on._

_A few minutes later a slightly short, well built man walked in. As he sat down he looked slightly uncomfortable, but John took no notice, as many people often are when walking into their GPs office, especially if they don't visit often._

_The man was seated in the chair in front of the desk, sitting on the edge and nervously twitching his leg. His eyes were anxious, but his rusty couloured irises were bright. They flicked from the floor to John and down again. John smiled reassuringly at him and the man relaxed a fraction._

_'How can I help-- ah,' John inquired politely, scanning his notes before finishing his sentence, ‘—Jonathan?’_

_'Well, it's- I've not been sleeping well.'_

_The man had no discernible accent, but spoke quickly._

_John nodded. 'Insomnia can be brought on through different reasons. Have you been stressed recently?'_

_'Uh, yeah. Yeah- the jobs been a bit full on.' The man said, shrugging slightly._

_'Well we can offer-' John began in a reassuring tone._

_'I was wondering- sorry-' the man cleared his throat, grimacing at his interruption, 'Well, it's been getting a bit, well, tough, because of the insomnia. So I was wondering if you could prescribe some sort of sleeping pill?'_

_John nodded slowly, 'Yes, yes. But if you still feel like there's too much pressure at your job, I would recommend some form of stress relief, whether taking some time off-'_

_'Yes, I'll bare that in mind.' The man said hurriedly._

_Writing out a prescription, John handed it to Straker._

_'Now they're a relatively strong pill, so only take two before bed for a full nights rest.'_

_'Thanks,' the man stood quickly, 'thank you. Bye.'_

 

Sherlock looked up from the crumpled and slightly tea stained records of Jonathan Straker with a perplexed look on his face.

'What could Straker be doing in London two days before his death?'

John shrugged, as much at a loss as Sherlock was, although John thought he was probably less likely to know what Straker was doing in London thank Sherlock was. John was right.

'But he wasn't just _in London._ He booked a doctor’s appointment. Why would he bother when he was back at home the next day? Why not just wait until he was back and go then?' Sherlock pondered out loud. He looked down at the pale corpse in front of him, 'What were you doing, Jonathan?'

Sherlock glowered at the corpse, as if irritated at it for not answering. 

'What happened to him?' Asked John, looking down at the battered corpse on the table. It was almost unrecognisable from the man he'd seen in his office only a few days ago. 

His eyes; when John had last seen then they were flicking around the room, but they were _alive_. Full of unknown emotions, brimming with complex feelings and thoughts. Now they were blank, cold and unseeing. Ignorant of everything around them. The only indication that they were the same eyes John had seen was the copper colouring surrounding the unresponsive pupils. 

The cadavers face had been contorted into a grimacing mass of shock and fear, the look unsettling with the wide, emotionless eyes staring out. 

'Come and have a look.' Sherlock requested casually, gesturing at the  table, like he was talking about out a colour chart for paints, instead of talking about a dead body.  

John walked around the table, Sherlock passing him a pair of surgical rubber gloves. 

John peered down at the back of the head, moving hair matted thick with blood out of the way so he could have a clearer look at the injury. 

John pulled in air through his teeth, grimacing. 'Geez, that's nasty.' 

Sherlock nodded, conveying nothing. John doubted that there was _anything_ to convey; to Sherlock, Straker was just an unsolved case. 

Leaning down slightly, John took a closer look at the wound. The skull had been completely cracked, caving in and revealing the insides covering the head in a mixture of blood and splinters of bone, spilling out from his head during the few last beats of the man’s heart. 

'Blunt object to the head by the looks of it. Probably died pretty quickly, at least. Pretty sever cracking of the skull, so I'd say it was either someone really strong or something really heavy.' John said, biting his lip.

John walked around the table to have a closer look at the rest of the body. There was a small slice on the middle of the outer thigh, ‘And there’s a cut here... Looks like it was done with a sharp blade. Neat cut, not fatal, but I’d say an inch or two deep.’ John pointed out. ‘Possibly done during a fight?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock agreed in a level tone. ‘Otherwise it would've been made after the head wound, which would've been obsolete. The cut is fairly near to the femoral, meaning the killer could have tried to sever the artery, but was unable, so then had to resort to a slightly cruder method of death.’

Sherlock pulled off his surgical gloves, ‘So now we just have to find out who killed him.'

'Oh, no problem then. ' John huffed, also pulling off his gloves and chucking them in the bin. ‘It'll be a breeze.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you're enjoying the story so far, feel free top leave any comments!


	4. The Mystery of the Empty Hotel

Early next the morning John and Sherlock were in a cab heading for Paddington station. When Mrs Hudson had waved them off from 221B. Both John and Sherlock thought she looked a little too relieved, even pleased, as they left. 

John assumed she was looking forward to a break from the occupants of 221B. Sherlock, however, had deduced she was planning on doing a major scour of 221B. The flat had been untidier than usual, showing she was saving for one big clean up.  Sherlock had thought ahead and hidden his skull in a safe place to save him from Mrs Hudson’s purge. 

Both men were right, but what Mrs Hudson knew and they didn't, was that later she was expecting a visitor Mrs Turner referred to as _her new man_ coming over, and was looking forward to him not being deduced and subsequently ruined by Sherlock. 

 

Once on board the train, with their luggage safely stowed in the overhead storage, John settled down with a paper and Sherlock pulled out his laptop and started tapping vigorously. 

The journey began in relative peace as they passes out of the city, the blur of buildings and houses slowly merging into stretches of green fields, trees and 

hedges. That was of course, until Sherlock snatched the newspaper out of Johns’ hands.

'Hey, what are you doing!' John complained on finding his hands devoid of newspaper.

'Sports section.' Sherlock replied, flicking through the pages.

'You’re sitting in front of a computer!' John objected testily.

Sherlock looked at him blankly. 

'Wh- oh never mind.' John said, shaking his head, and sighing in resignation.

John knew Sherlock well enough to know there was really no point in trying to argue with him. He instead settled to looking out the window as more country side flashed by. John couldn't help but feel that Sherlock’s eyes kept flicking over to him. He ignored the feeling and continued to watch the world pass by their window. 

 

A while later, after two changes, the train arrived in King's Pyland station, which was situated a little outside the village. John remembered the landscape of Dartmoor from their last visit to the place. Rolling hills and great expanses of green moor on all sides, with large rocks protruding every now and then from the ground.

 'Right,' said Sherlock, looking around after they had left the station. 'Lestrade suggested staying at the Mapleton. Alright with you?'

'Yeah, sure, sounds good.' John said distantly, shrugging as he looked around them, taking in the country side.

The hotel wasn't far from the station, so a short and relatively peaceful taxi ride later they arrived. 

Sherlock grabbed their bags from the boot. John reached over to take them from him, but Sherlock held up a hand. 

'No, it's alright. I've got them.' He said easily, lifting them up.

John quirked an eyebrow. 'Since when do you carry your own stuff? Let alone anyone else's.' He said, trying to sound grateful rather that completely taken aback.

'Since- ’ Sherlock paused to try and think of a time when he had helped, '--Now.' He finished, unable to think of one.

John decided to leave Sherlock with the bags and walked over to the reception desk. Smiling politely, he asked if there were any rooms vacant. 

'Oh, you're just in luck!' Replied the receptionist brightly, clicking away on her mouse. 'We've got one left. All the others have just been booked out.' 

'No, no, no, wait, no.' Stuttered John, placing a hand on the desk and leaning forward. 'Two rooms. We'd like _two separate rooms_.' He stressed the last sentence, raising his eyebrows pointedly, trying to ignore the slight flush of embarrassment he could feel rising up on his cheeks.

'Oh,' the receptionist also blushed slightly, 'I'm sorry, I just thought...' She trailed off, and bit her lip. 'We don't have any other free rooms, I’m sorry sir.' She smiled apologetically.

At this point Sherlock had joined John by the desk. 

'What do you mean no free rooms?' John demanded, looking round at the relatively empty room, and gesturing at it. 'There’s no one here but us! This place is empty!'

The receptionist scowled slightly, adopting a cooler tone. 'I’m sorry _sir_ , but we have _no_ free rooms. They have _all_ been booked out.'

John looked over at Sherlock, surprised and slightly irritated that the only time he was able to hold his tongue and not say something bitingly condescending was when John would really have appreciated it . 

'We could always see if there's anywhere else..' John suggested, under his breath.

Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder and turned him so they both had their backs to the receptionist,

'John, listen, we're only going to be here for a few nights. How bad could it be?' He pointed out, in a calming tone.

John shrugged in acceptance, 'I suppose you're right.'

Sherlock turned back to the receptionist, who was now tapping her brightly painted nails on the edge of her desk looking bored.

 'Would you be able to set up another bed in the room?' Sherlock asked in an unusually polite voice.

She smiled again, showing too much teeth for it to be considered genuine. 'I’ll see what I can do.'

 

Finally, taking the room keys John thanked the woman as she informed them of their room number. Taking the lift they soon found it, and standing outside the door John looked around. 

'You know, I really haven't seen anyone else around.' He said, in an intrigued voice, his brow creasing slightly.

Sherlock tipped his head forward in agreement, 'For a fully booked hotel it _is_ surprisingly sparse.'

'You’ve got that thinking face on. What is it?' John said even more intrigued, his brow furrowing even more,

'Hhmm?' Sherlock shrugged. 'Oh, no idea. I'm sure we'll find out though.' He said swiftly, in a tone that said his thoughts had already moved on. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, tipping his head towards the door.

Unsure of how they would find that sort of thing out, John opened the door. 

Their room was nice. Nondescript. Neither grand nor shabby: nice wallpaper, nice carpet, nice boring pastoral print in a nice bland frame. Then John’s eyes drifted to the one nice double-bed. Sherlock, clearly reading Johns exasperated expression, said 'Don’t worry, they'll bring up the other bed soon.'. John felt bizarrely comforted by his tone and smiled back to show his thanks.

After abandoning their bags in the room, they headed down to the hotels lounge area. 

It was a large room, with gentle decor in pastel colours. High-backed chairs and plush sofas littered the room, John and Sherlock choosing some in a corner, by a window.  

After he sat down, John peered round the edge of his chair, 'There's no one in here either!' he said throwing his hands slightly in the air from exasperation.

'Yes, John, as pressing as the case of the empty hotel _is_ , I think we should maybe put it to one side for a bit?' Sherlock suggested, tapping his fingers on his knees.

'Yes, sorry, right. So... What do you think is going on here then?' John said, settling down into the chair.

Sherlock considered for a moment. 

‘This has been done by someone who has something riding on the outcome of the race. I've been looking at the opposition to the Silver Blaze, and there are two main competitors to consider- the others can be ruled out.'

'And they are?' John prompted.

‘Desborough and Sweetbriar.' A young woman looked into the room where John and Sherlock were seated and tottered over, her high heels sinking into the thick carpet. 

'Can I get you anything?' she inquired politely.

John smiled up to her, 'yes, I'll have a tea please. Uh, make that two.' He added, deciding not to interrupt Sherlock. 

'Thanks.' John said, in a way of apology.

 Sherlock turned to John like there had been no interruption 'Now Sweetbriar's stable is on the outskirts of London, and Thomas Meredith, who owns the horse, lives in central London- so  he's looking less likely to have had anything to do with this, but can't, of course, be ruled out until we've got the relevant data. But Desborough,'

Sherlock leaned a little forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees, 'Is stabled around 30 miles over from here- just across the moor.'

'So you think..?' John said, slowly.

'Well, we can't know anything yet. Need to check everything out first.' Sherlock said flatly, sitting back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and huffed out a sigh, causing John to cock his head to one side. Before Sherlock could reply his phone began to buzz. 

'Lestrade?' Sherlock’s face clouded over slightly as he listened. 

'How long will you be? Ok. We'll meet you there.'

Hanging up, Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket. John crossed his legs and waited for Sherlock to explain.

'Lestrade’s almost at Silver Blazes’ old stable. And someone’s been brought in for questioning.' He said shortly.

'Who?' John said, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

 'Philip Simpson. Local bookie.'

'Well, I suppose he would know the odds on all the horses.' John suggested.

Sherlock didn't reply, his eyes glazed over as he thought.

'Could have been bribed? Maybe had some money placed on another horse? Money troubles and all,' John pressed.

No reply. John knew better than to try and get answers out of him when he was like this. Instead he sat back and waited for his tea to arrive. 

Sometime after it had been delivered Sherlock returned from his thoughts and slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair. John jumped, causing him to spill a second cup of tea in as many days.

Swearing under his breath, frantically wiping at his jeans, he glared at Sherlock. 'What?'

'It just doesn't make sense. Something doesn't fit right.' Sherlock complained and stood up briskly. 'Come along, John.'

Abandoning the attempt to get his jeans dry, John followed him out of the room. 

As they left the sitting room and crossed the hallway to the lobby, Sherlock thought out loud;  'We've got a few hours until Lestrade gets here to let us on, so- strictly speaking- we can't get into the crime scene until then, but we could always- why are you walking like that?' Sherlock stopped to watch John’s peculiar bow legged, half waddle. 

'My jeans are wet,' He replied shortly.

'Why?' Sherlock said looking at John like he was mad.

John sighed in exasperation. 'I spilt tea on them.'

'That was stupid of you,' Sherlock said screwing up his nose.

John glared. 

Recoiling slightly, Sherlock said, 'Well go and change them then.'

Grumbling, John turned on the spot and waddled away down the corridor. Sherlock tried not to laugh as John climbed the stairs. Unable to completely conceal each snigger, he received several glowers from John.  

On entering the room, John shucked his trousers off, and then jumped, tripping slightly to see Sherlock behind him. 

'Why aren't you outside?' John demanded. 

'Getting one of Lestrade’s DI badges.' Sherlock stated innocently.

'Well, hurry up and get it then.' John said huffily, leaning on the bed to kick the ends of his trousers off.

Sherlock started to stride over to his bag when he paused, looking down at John. 'You're burned.'

'Huh?'

'The tea, it scolded you.' In one smooth motion Sherlock was knelling in front of John, his hands inspecting the red patches on John’s lower thighs. 

'Ouch- get off!' John hissed, his breath hitching slightly as cold flesh touched hot. 

'Wait there.' Sherlock was up on his feet and then back a moment later, pressing a cool, damp towel onto john. 

'Thanks.' John said, savouring the feeling of the towel. 

'Can’t have my doctor being injured.' Sherlock said, 'And, frankly, you'd be useless if we needed to chase after anyone.'

John huffed a laugh. 'I’m so glad I mean that much to you.' 

Sherlock, who was still kneeling in front of John, looked up, smirking too. 

'John, you're irreplaceable.'

In that moment John thought he saw something flicker behind Sherlock’s eyes but the next second it was gone, and Sherlock was standing up, clearing his thought and saying briskly, 'When you're ready, get changed and we'll be off.' And with that he left the room. 


	5. Chapter 5

For a few hours John and Sherlock merely wondered round the town. John taking in the town, Sherlock deducing every person that passed them, and telling their deepest secrets to John once they’d gone. Despite having seen Sherlock in action many times, John was hard-pressed to believe his last deduction after he was informed that the post man had been having an affair with the town’s baker.

_‘His knees John! Covered in flour!_ ’

 Sherlock had decided that they couldn't really do anything to do with the case until Lestrade arrived. John also thought it was a better idea to wait, figuring it wasn't the best idea to be banned from the crime scene before they were even allowed in. 

 

Capleton Stable was quite large stable, as stables go, in John’s opinion. Not that John had much experience in stables, but he guessed that it was judging by the rows of barns and paddocks surrounding it. It was situated a little out of the town; with a ten minute walks from the nearest building.

They met Lestrade at the stables and he introduced them to Colonel Ross

 'Colonel, this is the... Investigator I mentioned to you. Sherlock Holmes and his, uh, assistant, John Watson.' Lestrade introduced them, gesturing to each in turn.

'Friend,' intervened Sherlock, at the sight of John’s indignant face. Sherlock chanced a look back to John after he had said this, and saw that his face had cleared, and he even thought he could see a slight curve form at the edges of his lips.

'Ah yes- I looked you up when Lestrade mentioned you. Saw your blog,' Colonel Ross nodded to John, 'if you can sort this mess out like you did the others, I'd be very impressed. Very _grateful_.' He said, stressing the last word, raising his eyebrows pointedly to Sherlock.

'Well, we’ll do our best.' John said reassuringly, when Sherlock didn’t reply. John turned to Sherlock, about to quietly reprimand him for his science, but stopped short at the far off expression on Sherlock’s face. The look was gone as Sherlock abruptly asked, ‘Can I ask you a few questions about Straker, before we go in.’

‘Of course,’ Colonel Ross said pompously, nodding ‘Anything to help.’

‘For how long was he in your employment?’

‘It was quite some year. He was my jockey before he became my trainer. Sad to see him go.’ He looked down at his feet, a forlorn look briefly passing over his face.

‘You’ve never had any trouble with him?’ Sherlock said, ignoring the Colonels momentary distress.

The man paused for a moment, considering, ‘Not that I can think of. He’s always been- always _was-’_ He paused again and swallowed _,_ ‘an excellent employee.’

'Lestrade, if you could take us through.' Sherlock gestured, his attention now moving on.

John turned to the Colonel, ‘Thank you,’ he said gently, elbowing Sherlock in the side as he did, before he could turn away.

‘Uh, yes,’ Sherlock agreed, not unkindly.

‘We’re sorry for your loss.’ Added John, trying to take the edge off of Sherlock’s slightly insensitive questioning. 

'This way,' Lestrade gestured, leading them through into a stable, large enough to hold several horses, but clearly equipped for one. Saddles were hung on the wall outside of the horses stall and a half finished hay bale hung from the barred door. 

A simple table and chair sat outside of the stall and a small metal sink with a slowly dripping tap was in the tucked into the corner. Apart from that and some stacked hay bales and horse feed the small room was empty. 

'A forensics team has been through- had a look around, but they haven't moved anything. They're out on the moor at the moment.' Lestrade informed them, pushing his hands deep into his coat pockets.

John looked over at Lestrade in slight confusion. 

'Where the body was found,' Lestrade clarified quickly. 

Sherlock didn’t bother listening to Lestrade’s explanations, he was already off, first looking around the stable, and then he began to concentrate on particular details. 

He squatted down next to the door, peering closely at the lock, 'Wasn't forced...' he murmured under his breath.

'Jack said the keys were still here in the morning,' Interjected the Colonel, in a helpful tone. 

Sherlock rose to his feet quickly, 'Jack?' He demanded, whipping round.  

'Yes, the stable boy,' the Colonel said quickly, startled by Sherlock’s reaction.

'When was he here?' Sherlock asked sharply.

'Well he- he, was here the whole evening,' he stammered back.

'What?' Sherlock snapped, 'why didn't you mention this, Lestrade? You need to tell me _everything_ if you want me to solve this.'

'Well-' Lestrade said, trying not to quail under the look Sherlock was now giving him.

'Shut up,' Sherlock hissed. Turning around he pointed at the colonel. 

'Here all evening? During the robbery? What does he know?'

'Well, nothing. He fell asleep. Honestly, I pay him to look after my horse for the night, and he bloody well gets it stolen! I'm telling you-'

Sherlock held up a hand, cutting the man off mid flow. 

'And the keys? What about the keys?' He asked intently, his eyes flicking between Lestrade and the Colonel.

'They- they hang on a hook over on the wall,' he said, pointing to an empty hook, 'and they were there during the night, and still here in the morning.' 

'They've been taken to be dusted for fingerprints,' Lestrade mentioned, watching Sherlock intently, ‘Should get the results soon.’

At that point, a massive long-haired mutt plodded slowly through the stable doors. Its ears pricked up as it lazily padded towards the group of men, and head butted Lestrade knees in greeting- causing Lestrade to buckle slightly under its strength. The dog sniffed around Lestrade ankles and began to bark loudly. 

'Always this good with the animals?' John sniggered. Lestrade shot him a sarcastic smile.

'Arty! Out!' The colonel said sharply, clicking his fingers and gesturing towards the door.  The dogs barking stopped and he slowly turned to settle against the door of the stable. 

Sherlock’s eyes had keenly followed the progress of the dog in an out of the stable. John saw him tracking the animal’s movements and cocked his head slightly, but Sherlock shook his head as if to say; ‘Not now’.  

'I think it's time to show us to where the body was found,' Sherlock announced, his focus switching back to Lestrade.

'You know where it is, Lestrade,' the colonel said, his nose wrinkling at the memory of the area. 'I think I'll leave you to it.'

 But as the three men filed out of the door, he suddenly reached out and caught Sherlock sharply by the arm. 

'You will be able to find out who did this, won't you? You will get my horse back? In time for the national?' He blurted, his eyes displaying the unwanted emotions of fear and worry.

Sherlock looked the man in the eye, turned to face him and stated firmly, but coolly, 'Yes.' 

Sherlock turned on his heel and left the stable, his coat swishing out behind him. John looked from the colonel, to Lestrade, who was looking several years older through weariness and then with a nod of his head to the older man, followed Sherlock out of the building. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a little shorter- But fear not! There are some longer ones coming up soon....


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive on the crime scene, Sherlock has theories and John tries not to swoon (sort of)

The sun shone high in the sky, but John couldn't feel it's warmth as he stood by the blood splattered patch of ground on the lonely moor. He and Sherlock stood with the investigators from the local law enforcement in a large bowl-shaped depression in the moor, most wearing dull white overalls, but Sherlock and John clearly visible between them in their street clothes.  
Expanses of weeds and long grass littered the rolling hills, broken only by mossy rocks jutting out of the horizon.  
The sun continued to beat down, but John shivered as a breeze blew his jacket open. Despite the chilly breeze, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the weather, caught up as he was in a rant. 'Why did they have to move the body? This is ridiculous! How am I supposed to find anything out when the main piece of evidence is missing?' Sherlock grumbled at John’s side, shooting irritated glances at Lestrade, who was ignoring him.  
Sherlock flounced off, ducking under the tape to the patch of grass where the body was found.  
Squatting down, Sherlock inspected the ground. “John,” he instructed, “check the weather the night Straker died.  
'Hmm?' John hummed absently, already reaching for his phone.  
'The weather. Did it rain?' Sherlock asked in an irked tone.  
'Uh.. Yeah. Rained all last week.' John said, flicking through the results on the screen.  
'Temperature? In the morning?' Continued Sherlock.  
'Cold. Frost until early afternoon.' John read.  
'Weather since?' Sherlock challenged, straightening up, pulling off his gloves.  
'Cold and dry.' John looked up from his phone to see Sherlock prowling around the perimeter of the tape; suddenly Sherlock dived to the ground and crawled across the grass like a dog that had found a scent.  
'Sherlock- what?' John said, baffled. Lestrade and the rest of the forensics team stared, some unashamedly gawping, as Sherlock shuffled along the ground like an awkwardly overgrown crab.  
'What is he-' Lestrade murmured under his breath, before shaking his head and saying louder, 'Fifteen minutes. Then I want some answers, Sherlock- ok?'  
Lestrade turned to a police man who had appeared by his side and took the photos the man held out. Flicking through them he nodded to the man and shifted back to face John. Lestrade handed John the photos, saying, 'Some photos of the body whilst it was here and some of it from Barts. The post mortem report’s in there too. Give them to Sherlock once he's finished, would you? Cheers.'  
John took the papers and nodded, walking over to Sherlock, looking through the pictures as he did. Shots of the body John had seen only a few days earlier; some close ups of the cracked skull and others of the whole body. John looked away from the photos, not wishing to to be reminded of the gory remains of Jonathan Straker.  
Sherlock was still examining the ground as he walked over.  
'What are you doing?' John asked, running a hand through his hair, a perplexed expression on his face.  
'Mud John! Mud is eloquent.' Sherlock stated from the floor, as if it were the most obviously blatent thing in the world.  
'Of course...' John said, rolling his eyes.  
Sherlock’s hands paused their scuttling across the ground momentarily. He scrabbled at the earth slightly, pulling something from the dry mud. John squatted down next to him.  
John squatted down next to him, crossing his arms against the cold,  
and asked, “What is it?” Sherlock rubbed at the object, brushing the mud and earth off. 'Knife,' he said quietly, turning the object over in his hand.  
John took it from him and had a closer look. It was fairly short, the handle slightly longer than the blade. It had once been shiny and silver in colour, but was now tarnished from lying in the damp mud.  
'Its a cataract knife,' John commented.  
'What?' Sherlock looked up swiftly, from the blade to John.  
'Cataract knife. I've used it in surgery before,' John explained.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, his eyes searching John’s face, before his expression switched to a cool, calculating look, with his eyebrows knitted together in concentration.  
'It's a medical knife... Interesting,' he said, more to himself than John.  
He stood up sharply, whipping round, making his coat flick out behind him and smacking John in the face.  
Spitting out coat, John swore. 'Dammit Sherlock!' He said loudly.  
Sherlock looked round, a smirk playing around his lips.  
'My apologies.' He said, still grinning, holding his hand out to John to help him up.  
John took it and Sherlock hoisted him smoothly off the ground. There was a moment before Sherlock moved, where John could still see the humour in Sherlock’s expression. Then he had turned around and tugged John by his hand along after him, calling, 'Come along John!'  
'Where- Sherlock!' John grumbled as he was dragged along in the opposite direction from where they had come.  
'Sherlock!' Lestrade called from behind them.  
John dug his heels into the ground, halting Sherlock mid stride. He pulled Sherlock back, gesturing his other hand at Lestrade, who was hurrying over to them.  
'You can't just go running off when-' Lestrade began, pausing and looking pointedly at the men's linked hands. John looked down and dropped Sherlock’s hand hurriedly.  
'Uh..' He said distractedly, holding out the knife Sherlock had found.  
'Sherlock found..' John faltered, cursing internally as he could feel a heat creeping up his neck.  
Sherlock, who was as completely calm and collected as normal, looked down at John in amusement. 'John, you should really try to form sentences before you blurt them out, it makes you seem awfully dim.'  
John glared at Sherlock, opening his mouth to retort, when Lestrade cleared his throat. 'Yes, when you two have quite finished,' he said, raising his eyebrows pointedly.  
John snapped his mouth shut, and looked over to him. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he spotted a gleam in Lestrade eye that clearly said he was not going to be forgetting this any time soon.  
John cleared his throat. 'A knife. Sherlock found a carterat knife where the body was found.'  
'Was it his? Strakers, I mean.' Lesrade asked, turning the object over in his hands.  
'Well, if it’s not his, I don't know who else it could of belonged to.' Sherlock stated.  
'Uh, I don't know,' Lestrade said, raising his eyebrows ironically, 'maybe the murderers?'  
'Oh really?' Sherlock replied, tilting his head at Lestrade, 'Well then I'd love to know how he managed to drop it over there when there's only one set of footprints. Maybe he threw it at Straker from afar, somehow causing massive brain damage? Or maybe the murderer simply flew over, bashed in Straker’s head and flew off again,' Sherlock said airily, folding his arms.  
'One set of footprints?' Lestrade repeated bemused.  
'Yes. As John told us, it rained that night. The moor would have been muddy, thus anyone walking as cross would have left footprints.'  
'How can you be sure they're Straker’s, though?' Lestrade queried.  
'It hasn't rained since, ruling out the option that it could be anyone else's, and as it was cold that evening, the mud would have frozen, leaving the footprints there. I had a look, and they were. But there was only one set- Straker’s. It couldn't be anyone else. Male shoe, but a small size, and the footprints are deep- indicating a strong stride. Could only be the footprints of a jockey.' Sherlock rattled off, gesticulating as he did.  
'Brilliant..' John murmured in slight awe.  
'Obvious.' Sherlock replied.  
'Then how was Straker murdered?' Lestrade pressed.  
'Good question. One I hope to find the answer to in due course.'  
'But why are you over here? Are you looking for other footprints?'  
'Well, when I say there was only one set of footprints, there was only one human set. Sliver Blaze came this way, and I'm trying to follow his tracks.'  
'Right. Ok, well, right.' Lestrade nodded. 'You go and follow- I've got to report this back to the team. Can I take that knife?'  
When Sherlock passed it over, lestrade added, 'And Sherlock- as soon as you find anything, tell me. You got that? Or I'll have you for withholding evidence.' He looked at John, 'you make sure he does, ok?'  
'Lestrade, I hardly ever know if he's got evidence anyway, it's not like he ever explains himself!' John protested.  
'Fair point. But still-' he looked pointedly at them both. 'See you in a bit.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! Sorry it's taken me so long to up date, things have been getting slightly hectic... Next update will be after the new year- so not too long, I promise!  
> Have a good Christmas and MERRY SHERLOCK SERIES 3!


	7. Never Underestimate the Importance of the Cow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Sherlock is surprisingly knowledgeable about cows...

The sun had disappeared behind clouds as John followed Sherlock across the empty moor. 

A wind blew across the land, unhindered by foliage, whipping Sherlock’s curls about his face as he paused to crawl and inspect the ground, still hunting for tracks. 

John pulled his jacket tighter around himself, the day turning colder with the lack of sunlight. The gust ruffled and creased the papers in his hand almost snatching them from his grasp. Whilst he waited for Sherlock, John perused the photographs Lestrade had given him, there was one of Straker lying dead on the hill they had just left, another of his lifeless corpse lying on a table at Barts. 

'Sherlock!' John called over the noise of the wind. 

Sherlock looked round from his bizarre half crouch-crawl on the moor to respond, but his reply was lost in the breeze. John beckoned him over, and in a minute they were standing with their backs to the gale, their heads close together so they could hear one another. John pointed to one of the photos, 'On Straker’s leg, the cut we saw, here,’ he pointed, ‘could that have been done with the knife?'

Sherlock studied the photo, his eyes flicking back and forth. 

'Yes,' he said, nodding slowly. 

'Could have fallen on it when he was hit.' John offered, 'but that would have meant he would have had the knife.. Why would he have had the knife?'

Sherlock watched John ponder. 

'Maybe he took it to go after the thief?' John suggested.

'But,' Sherlock said, handing back the picture, ' we’ve still only got one set of footprints. None for the murder.’

‘So he couldn’t have been following,’ John said slowly, catching on.

‘There are a lot of things in this case that just don't seem to add up,’ Sherlock said, straightening up and looking round to where he had been crawling before.

'Have you had any more luck with the tracks?' John asked, also looking round.

'Well,' Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh, 'I was, but then-' he pulled John over to where he had been inspecting and tugged him into a crouching position, 'you can see here there's the horses tracks,' he pointed out, ' but if you keep following them...' 

John followed to where Sherlock’s gloved hand was pointing. The tracks, visible where they were crouched, began to disappear as other tracks covered them up, other hoof prints blocking out the trail they'd been following. 

'Bloody animals.' John grumbled, standing up brushing mud from his hands. 

'Cows,' Sherlock pointed out, 'quite a distinctive hoof print.' 

'Since when were you such an expert on cows?' Chuckled John, helping Sherlock to his feet, 'please tell me there was a case where you ended up having to live on a farm for a month or something...' 

'Never underestimate the importance of the cow, John.' Sherlock said seriously; his facade cracked at the last second and he joined in with John’s snorts of laughter. 

After their sniggers had subsided, Sherlock pushed his windswept hair off his forehead, saying as he did, 'Come on, we better see if we can find the tracks again.' 

A little further on, after a few misleading cow tracks, they were soon back on the trail. 

'I don't get it Sherlock.' John mused. 

'John, there are many things of which you are unforgivably ignorant, you'll have to narrow it down if you want me to explain.' Sherlock stated wryly.

John cleared his throat, his cough sounding an awful lot like the phrase _solar system_. Sherlock pouted. 

'I just don't get why the horse was by itself.. Sherlock!' Johns eyes widened slightly as he had a sudden thought. He grasped Sherlock’s sleeve, 'what if the thief was riding it!' 

Sherlock smiled and nodded at John, mildly impressed, 'Very good John. Thinking things through I see.' 

'So if we follow the tracks, it could lead us to where the horse is being kept?' John asked, feeling pleased with himself.

'Well, I'm hoping that they'll explain something, at any rate.' Sherlock replied, running a gloved hand through his hair, and raised his head, looking into the distance. 'I’d say we're almost there.' 

John craned his neck to see over the ridge of the hill they'd been walking. A small town lay not too far in the distance. 

The tracks slowly disappeared as roads and footpaths appeared. They followed a road into the town, which only slightly smaller than the town they’d just left. 

'Where do we go now?' John asked, looking to Sherlock, who was looking around the street. 

'I think I might have some idea,' Sherlock crossed the road, over to a man who was looking in one of the windows of a shop. 'Excuse me,' Sherlock said politely, 'but I was wondering if you'd be able to point us to the stables?' He flashed one of his most charismatic smiles at the man, and John had to resist rolling his eyes. Sherlock really did know how to manipulate people when he tried. 

'Oh, 'ave they been 'aving some problems down there as well?' The man inquired with a thick Devonshire accent. John thought he was referring to the missing horse, and was surprised, as he thought the police had been trying to keep it quiet. John supposed that word still could travel fast, especially in small towns. 

Sherlock clearly thought that was what the man was talking about too, as he airily replied, 'Oh, no, nothing of that sort.' 

'I was going to say, you didn't look much like a vet anyhow,' said the man, looking Sherlock up and down. Confusion briefly flashed across Sherlock’s face, before it was covered by an easy going expression. 'Would be awful bad luck too, considering how close the race is, wouldn't want any of them horses getting lame,' the man continued, oblivious to Sherlock and John’s confusion. 

'Lame?' Sherlock asked, trying to sound politely inquiring instead of deeply confused. 

'Oh, what, ain't you 'eard? Sorry mate, didn't realise,' the man said, looking between John and Sherlock, now showing confusion of his own. 'Thought that's why you would have wanted to go there.' 

'What’s been happening?' Asked John. 

'Well, it's all them animals, in't it? Sheep and the like been going lame. They been thinking it was a fox or dog- sometimes attack live stock, you know. Not cows mind you, I said, as a few of them 'ave been 'ad and all. I said to Roberts, I 'ardly ever 'eard of anything going after cows. An' I was right, see. They got a vet in, an' he said that it weren't like any animal attack he'd ever seen. 'Pparently said it was too clean, 'cording to Roberts any way.' The man gesticulated wildly as he talked, gesturing this way and that, until finally he broke off, 'ang on you wanted to know where the stables was? Down that road,' he pointed over Sherlock’s shoulder to a small road leading off the main one they were standing on, 'can't miss it.'

'Thanks,' John said, as Sherlock had already begun to hurry off.

 

They followed the small road for five minutes, until they reached a muddy courtyard with a sign, clearly labelling it as the place they were trying to find. John followed Sherlock as he strolled purposefully into the courtyard and across to a row of stables. He wondered through an open door and inspected some of the stalls. 

A young man, clearly a work hand, walked in holding a broom. 

'Oh!' he said surprised, looking over to the two men, 'can I help?'

'Yes,' Sherlock turned towards him. 'Is Silas Brown in?' 

'Uh, yes, would you like me to get him?' 

'Oh, I'd much prefer it if you could take us to him.' He said, flashing a wide smile.

The boy led them through to a building on the back of the stables. 

'Sir, there's some men here to see you.' The boy said, before scurrying quickly off. 

'What do you want?' The man said aggressively, 'we don't want any trespassers around here.'  

'I only wish to have a brief talk with you, Mr Brown. Or can I call you Silas?' Sherlock replied smoothly, in one of his most charming voices. 

'No you can't! I haven't got time to talk to every god-damn-nosy bugger who comes sauntering over here!' Brown said hotly. 

'I can assure you it will only take a minute.' Sherlock said smoothly. Sherlock leaned forward whispered something so quietly into the mans ear that John couldn't hear him. 

Brown stumbled back from him and flushed deeply. 

'A lie! It's a bloody lie!' He cried. 

'Excellent. Shall we argue about it here or in your office?' Sherlock asked tipping his head to one side and smiling innocently. 

'Fine. If you must.' He retorted sharply. 'But- just you.' 

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John could see there was no point. Brown did not look like he would let it go. 

'It’s fine Sherlock. I'll wait out here for you.' 

'Alright,' Sherlock said tersely. 'I'll keep it brief.'

The sun had begun to set as John waited. He watched it, leaning on the frame of the door, as blues slowly turned into fiery oranges. It was around twenty minutes before Sherlock reappeared with Brown following behind.

A change had overcome Brown in the brief time he had been talking to Sherlock. His bullying, overbearing manner had gone and he had turned a pasty ashen colour and beads of perspiration were making their way down his face. His hands shook slightly as Sherlock grasped his hands in fair well. 

'You will make sure it's done?' He said conversationally. 

'Yes. Of course.' The man stammered.

Sherlock smiled, 'I'll be in touch.' 

He then turned away from the man and walked swiftly towards John, taking him by the arm ad leading him out of the building. 

'Give Lestrade a call. Tell him to send someone over. We need picking up.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry that took me longer than I expected to update! But I have a bunch of other chapters written, so they'll be added soon (ish?)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves the case of the empty hotel (and does some actual work on the real case, but whatever)

Running a hand through his hair, Lestrade looked around the drive Sherlock and John were standing on. 

'What are you doing over here?'  He asked wearily.

'Investigating.' Sherlock shot back. 'You're team should try it some time.'

'Play nice, Sherlock,' John said wryly, raising his eyebrows at him, 'or Lestrade won't give you a lift back.' 

'If I'm stuck here, then you're not going anywhere,' Sherlock said with a quirk of his lips. 

Lestrade hadn't been paying any attention to their conversation, but had been peering around Sherlock and John to try and see where they were. He chipped in; 'Is this that other stable?' 

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, Marlebrown stables.'

'We were going to get a warrant to look round it,' Lestrade mentioned, absently.

'What a bright idea,' Sherlock said sarcastically, with a flick of his eyes to the sky, 'however, that’s  no longer necessary.' 

'You sure?' Lestrade pressed.

'Quite,' Sherlock confirmed with a tight nod of his head. He turned on his heel and walked towards the police car, calling over his shoulder, ‘Now, what about that lift, Lestrade?'

A short journey through the green rolling hills of the Devon countryside later, Lestrade pulled up outside of the small police station. They all clambered out and Lestrade led them inside. 

'Right, I mentioned earlier that we'd- well the local force- had brought someone in for questioning. He's a local bookie; got money problems, heavily in debt. He could have rigged the odds, put a large bet on- you get the idea.' Lestrade informed Sherlock and John from over his shoulder as he strode through the building. 

'He's not been arrested then?' John asked, trying to keep pace with Sherlock. 

'Wouldn't have enough evidence, considering he didn't actually do it,' Sherlock said, his hands folded behind his back as he walked. 

Lestrade spun on his heel mid stride to face Sherlock, causing Sherlock to stop abruptly and John to walk straight into Sherlock’s back. A muffled grown came from John that no one heard. Lestrade demanded, 'How do you know that?' 

'Oh, just call it an inkling. This room?' Sherlock said smoothly, side stepping around Lestrade and into the room behind him. 

Lestrade put up a hand before John could enter the room, resting it on Johns shoulder. 'Don't let him get too hard on the poor guy. He's been here all afternoon,' Lestrade sighed heavily rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead, ‘like a few other people I could mention.’ 

'Don’t you think he did it, either?' John asked in a low voice. 

'Honestly?' Lestrade said dropping his hands by his sides, 'No. But his didn't give us any information either way when some of the guys here questioned him earlier. I'm hoping he'll be a bit more open after Sherlock’s had a go at him.' 

'Speaking of which,' John said, rising up slightly onto the balls of his feet so he could see over Lestrade’s shoulder and through the small peep hole on the door, 'I better get in there before he gives the guy a mental breakdown or something.' 

 

On entering the room, John saw that Sherlock had removed his long coat and draped it over the back of the only chair that sat opposite the table that what had to be Phillip Simpson was hunched over. 

'Ah, John. Glad you could join us.' Sherlock said easily. He was sitting, relaxed in the chair, one arm flung over the back, the other resting on his leg, his fingers aimlessly tapping on his knee.

His head slowly moved to look over at the man sitting across from him, and was opposite in every aspect. 

Whereas Sherlock seemed calm and collected, Phillip Simpson had a strained look on his face, sweat on his forehead glistening under the bright white of the blanket lighting on the ceiling. 

He sat on the edge of his chair, a knee twitching nervously as he chewed on his bottom lip. 

His eyes flicked anxiously from Sherlock to John and back. John went to stand by Sherlock, leaning against Sherlock’s chair.

Sherlock removed his arm from the back of the seat, moving forward on it and resting his elbows on the metal table between himself and Phillip Simpson. He rested his chin carefully on his hands, looking over at the sweating man. 

'Now Mr Simpson, can you tell me why you're here?'

Phillip Simpson seemed taken aback by Sherlock’s question. He shifted in his chair. 

'Why.. Why I'm here?' he stuttered.

'Yes.' Sherlock said, his hands falling onto the table in front of him as he straightened up in his chair, the sudden movement making Phillip Simpson jump.

‘I.. Is this some sort of trick question?’ He asked hesitantly.

‘Not at all,’ Sherlock said reassuringly.

‘Well, I’m here for questioning, aren’t I?’

‘You’re quite right,’ Sherlock said as though Simpson had just reminded him, 'So, your opinion on this case. I'd like to hear it.'

John didn't bother trying to hide his disbelieving snort. 

'Objective opinion, John. Always useful.' Sherlock said, not looking around. 

Phillip Simpson looked over to John, and back to Sherlock. 

'I really don't know any more than what I've been told.' 

'Which is?' Sherlock prompted with a gesture of his hands. 

'Well, that, well...' He paused for a moment, swallowing, 'Straker was killed,' his voice wavered slightly, 'and that man at the stables, Ross, has had his horse stolen. And they think _I_ did it!' His voice rose in pitch and cracked at the end of his statement. His breathing became shallower as he started to babble; 'and I didn't! I could never, ever, do something like that! I've never- haven't-'

'It’s alright,' John said, raising a hand to cut him off, 'Take a deep breath; In and out,' The man nodded vigorously, gulping air like a fish out of water. 

'You’re quite right of course.' Sherlock said, standing up. Phillip Simpson looked over at him hopefully, 'you _never_ could have done this. Have a good day.' Sherlock pulled his coat on swiftly, flicking the collar up and smoothing down the front. 

Phillip Simpson’s eyes followed Sherlock as he strode through the door, staring in bewilderment. John’s eyes were also locked on Sherlock as he left, but not in bewilderment, following the trail of his coat as it disappeared out the door.

 

'Well that was pointless,' Sherlock stated as John and Lestrade joined him outside the room. 

'Complete waste of time. Even your team could see that, Lestrade,' Sherlock said looking distastefully at him. 

'Hey- the guy had a motive, and there were witness saying they saw him by the stables that night, you can understand their thinking,' Lestrade said evenly. 

'If you wanted to do something useful, you can get that stable boy in here for questioning,' Sherlock said with an air of arrogant authority.

'What, the guy that that Ross bloke was complaining about?' John said, brow furrowed, feeling he'd missed something. 

'The very same. Lestrade, if you'd be so kind.' 

Lestrade nodded promptly and turned on his heel, walking to the front desk to place some calls. 

'We're not going to be able to get him today,' Lestrade announced a few minutes later.

Sherlock tutted derisively. 

'Sherlock, have you seem the time?' Lestrade said, tapping his watch, 'it's not exactly early.'

'It’s not like he's got job to get to,' Sherlock muttered under his breath, John tutting at his words. 

John and Sherlock made their way backs to the hotel in the evening light. Lestrade had said he'd meet them later, but he had decided to get some more work done before he left for the day. 

On entering the hotel, the lobby area was as empty as it had been earlier. Even the receptionist wasn't at her desk. John grumbled under his breath. Sherlock, however, walked swiftly to the door, looked left and right, and then settled himself behind the reception desk.

'Sherlock- what are you doing?!' John hissed at him. 

Sherlock didn't look up from the computer he was now clicking away at, 'Keep an eye out,' he simply instructed. 

'Of for-' John huffed as he went to the door, looking left and right down the empty corridor. 

'Obvious,' Sherlock said tutting as he typed the password in. Some minutes of silence passed the only sound Sherlock clicking on the computers mouse.

'Knew it!' Sherlock suddenly said triumphantly from behind him. John jumped slightly, then abandoning his look out post, John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder at the computor. 

'What?' John said after scanning the screen briefly, furrowing his brow, puzzled. 

Sherlock tapped the screen in front of him. John had a proper look. What he saw surprised him.

Then it irritated him.

 Then it made him laugh.

 Then he was annoyed again.

All of the rooms had been booked out, so the receptionist hadn’t been wrong on that account, but, excluding John and Sherlock’s room and a smattering of other guests, they were all booked out under the name of ‘ _M. Holmes’_ .

‘No.’ Muttered John. ‘What? _Why?’_

‘It appears like my _dear brother_ is having a little joke at our expense,’ Sherlock complained, snorting from a mixture of amusement and irritation.

‘Hilarious, very.’ John grumbled, ‘I’d say he had more money than sense if I didn’t know him better.’

They both jumped away from the desk at the sounds of foot steps down the corridor. Sherlock placed a hand on the small of Johns back and pushed him out of the door and into the corridor before the receptionist had a chance to enter the room.

‘So Mycroft booked out all of the rooms. Somehow figures.’ John sighed exasperatedly. ‘It’s never going to be simple when you Holmes’s are involved, is it?

Sherlock flashed a grin at him. ‘Would you ever what it to be?’

John laughed. ‘There must be something wrong with me, but for some reason... No.’ Sherlock laughed too. ‘I must need my head examined,’ John said, shaking it, still grinning with amusement.

 

A few hours later, just as Sherlock and John were heading down for dinner, Lestrade arrived. He joined them on their way to the hotels small, but quaint, dining room. Before they sat down, a waiter asked them for their room numbers.

‘110, 111 and 112.’ Sherlock said quickly, before John or Lestrade could open their mouths.

As they sat down, John pinched the bridge of his nose said exasperatedly, ‘Sherlock, why did you lie about our room numbers?’

Sherlock cracked a grin, shrugged, and said flippantly, ‘Well, if Mycroft insists on booking all the rooms, we might as well make use of him paying for them.’

 

After dinner the small party split off to their respective rooms. Lestrade wished them a goodnight as they climbed the stairs, and then left them.

Sherlock and John carried on back to theirs, and John wondered if the extra bed had been set up yet.

On entering the room it was evident that it had, as there was now barely any space left to cross the small room. Working his way between the beds, John grabbed some his things from his bag and headed for the bathroom.

After he’d changed he left the bathroom to find Sherlock sitting with his laptop on the proper bed.

‘Oh, you’re taking that one, are you?’ John huffed as he navigated his way back across the room. Sherlock looked up as John spoke, and then back down at his laptop.

‘You can have this bed, if you want.’ He muttered, still engrossed in his work.

‘Really?’ John challenged, eyebrows raised in slight astonishment.

Sherlock looked up briefly. ‘Mmmm.’

John glanced at the bed that had been set up. It was rather small, and certainly too small for Sherlock’s lanky frame. John opened his mouth to mention, but Sherlock, clearly anticipating his reply, said, ‘I probably won’t be getting much sleep, anyway. You might as well get as much as you can.’

‘Thanks Sherlock,’ John said, hopping over the small bed and onto the double. He settled down under the covers, with Sherlock on his other side, leaning against the headboard of the bed with his laptop on his lap. John turned to him and asked, ‘What are you researching?’

Sherlock tutted, in relatively good natured way, and began to explain, but John felt his attention waning shortly after the phrase _‘The overall trajectory and displacement...’_

His eyelids becoming heavy, he murmured drowsily before he fell asleep, ‘Do try and get _some_ rest tonight, Sherlock.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOWOW I'M SO SORRY.  
> I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN SO LONG.   
> But don't fret, the last few chapters have been written (ish) so just need editing and then posting!  
> Hope the wait was worth it...   
> (sorrysorry)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make headway on the case, among other things...   
> Also John doesn't trust a coffee machine

When John woke the next morning he felt warm, content and well rested. He wormed down further under the covers, but then his eyes jerked open when he felt someone stir beside him. Barely moving, he peered over the fluffy pillow blocking his view.

Sherlock’s sleeping face was inches away from Johns, his breathing slow and heavy. During the night they had both ended up gravitating towards the middle of the bed, until they were almost touching. John let his head fall back lightly onto the pillow, too comfortable to bother moving. He fell back into a light doze, until a snort from the other pillow jolted him back into full consciousness.

Sherlock was still fast asleep, snuffling loudly as John shuffled up the bed so he was leaning against the headboard. Sun was pouring in through the cracks in the curtains, filling the room with a soft light. John rubbed sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands, yawning widely. He dragged himself out the bed, grabbing a change of clothes from his bag, as he walked over to the bathroom to change and get ready for the day. When he had finished Sherlock was still asleep, sprawled out across the bed, limbs tangled in the sheet. John took a moment to laugh at him, before throwing his screwed up pyjamas at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock grunted loudly from under the items and roll over to bury his face into his pillow. “Come on Sherlock! Greg said he’d meet us at the police station at 10,” John said as he pulled open the curtains, the bright sunlight streaming into the room.

“Mmm,” Sherlock mumbled as he groggily pulled himself from beneath the covers and made his way to the bathroom to get ready.

 

*  *    *   *

 

John and Sherlock  met Lestrade at the police station half an hour after they’d planned (John had found Sherlock snoozing on the toilet, still fully clothed in his pyjamas fifteen minutes after Sherlock had gone to get ready). Lestrade was flustered, he explained in a rush that he had been in since six and he was still. Sherlock chose this moment to yawn pointedly, causing Lestrade to scowl and grumpily tell them to, ‘Just be patient, ok? Give me ten minutes,’ before hurrying off. John called after him, 'Hey, Greg, is there anywhere I can get a cup of tea?' Lestrade waved a free hand towards a room down a corridor to their right, not turning back to look at them. 

The room Lestrade had pointed them to was a small room, that clearly doubled as a break room for the staff and a waiting room for visitors. There were a group of old, frayed chairs lined around the walls of the room, and a small table with a well used looking drinks machine on it. John eyed it suspiciously, and decided on a coffee instead. 

'You want one?' John said, pulling a Styrofoam cup from a pile by the machine, adding, 'Might as well. Probably have a bit of a wait.' 

'Yeah, thanks.' Sherlock said, looking around the room before falling into one of the chairs that still had most of its padding. 

John settled down next to him, handing him his coffee- two sugars, dark. 

John took a sip of his, wrinkling his nose at the weak flavour of the drink, but appreciating the buzz of energy it gave.

 'So, why do you want to talk to this guy? What was his name? Josh? Jake?' John narrowed his eyes trying to remember. Shrugging, he shifted in his seat so he was facing Sherlock. 

'He was working there on the night shift that evening. He might have seen something.' Sherlock replied, tapping his cup idly. 

‘Colonel Ross said he fell asleep, though.' John pointed out. 

'Mmm.' Sherlock nodded, but still had look of deep concentration upon his face. There was a pause where Sherlock thought and John sipped disdainfully his coffee, before Sherlock blurted, 'but that doesn't seem quite right.' 

'Well, unlike you, normal people do actually need sleep to function.' John said, raising his eyebrows pointedly. 

'But he would have done that shift before. Up all night, he'd have been used to it, would have prepared, surely.' Sherlock explained, brow furrowed.

Sherlock sunk into his chair, preoccupied, thinking deeply. John continued to sip his coffee, hoping he would get used to the flavour with time. It didn’t. 

The minutes past mostly in companionable silence, broken only occasionally by small conversation. After around half an hour, Lestrade stuck his head round the door. John jumped in his seat, Sherlock merely looking around in interest.

'The guys here, If you want to come through.' 

Both men stood, John rolling his shoulders before dropping their empty cups into the bin. 

Lestrade led them back to the small room where they'd spoken to Phillip Simpson earlier. This time he joined them in the room, where there was now three seats around the their side of the table. 

'Jack,' Lestrade said, sitting down on the chair furthest from the door. 'Thanks for coming down at such short notice. And sorry about the lateness. We just need to ask you a few questions about what happened that night.' He said, smiling encouragingly. 

Jack nodded, looking round at Sherlock and John who had sat down next to Lestrade.  He didn't look as uncomfortable as Simpson had been, but he was still uneasy, his hands clasped in his lap, fidgeting on his chair ever so slightly. 

'It’s no problem.' He said, attempting to make his voice seem relaxed. 

Lestrade looked over to Sherlock, giving a small nod to say he could start questioning him.

'Did you often look after Silver Blaze during the nights?' He asked, leaning forward in his chair. 

The young man nodded. ‘There are three of us that work at the stables. We take it in turns to look after him in the evenings.  Every night, for about a month before any major event, there's someone in the stall with him. Stay with him until dawn, when someone else comes to take over.' 

Sherlock pressed on, 'You'd say you were used to this arrangement then?'

Jack nodded again. 

'And you've never fallen asleep on your shift before?' 

Jack blushed at this question, looking down at his hands. 'Never before.' He said, the flush spreading to his neck. 'Never. I can't believe it happened! I hadn't even been tired during the day.' He looked up now, staring imploringly at Sherlock. 'I _always_ make sure I've had enough sleep on the day before my shift.'

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, 'And nothing was different the day or evening before?' 

Jack shook his head, 'Nothing.'

'You hadn't been anywhere, done anything, which could have caused you to be tired?' 

Jack continued to shake his head. 

'Was anything different on that night, then?' Sherlock said, a frown upon his face.

Jack paused, to consider.

'Not that I can think of-- well, except for the fact that Jonathan was still there a little later on.' 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. 

'He usually goes home as I arrive, see. He doesn't often stay on. I remember asking him why he was still there when he brought me in my coffee and I said to him, _Why are you still here then? Where’s Mary?’_ Jack paused in his recount to explain, ‘Mary, she helps out by the stables.' He smiled sheepishly. 'She always brings me a coffee. Sometimes sits in there with me, 'till she goes home.'

'He brought you your coffee? Does he usually?' Sherlock asked, rubbing his chin. John could feel him tensing and straightening up in his chair next to him. 

'No,' Jack clarified. 'Like I said, he's usually gone by then.' He paused before adding, 'he made it too. I could tell, that is, that Mary hadn't made it. So he must've done.' 

'You asked him why he was still there? What did he say?' Sherlock said. 

'Well,' Jack paused again, frowning, 'He didn't actually answer. He said..' The blush was creeping up over his checks again. 

'What did he say?' Sherlock snapped. John could tell he was getting irritated by the pauses.

'He just laughed and said’ Jack shifted in his chair, ‘- he said Mary would be through in a bit...' Jack trailed off, embarrassed. 

Sherlock huffed in irritation. 'Did he say anything after? Anything _useful_?' 

'Not really. Just chatted after, ' Jack said simply, squaring his shoulders and straightening up in his chair. 

'And when did he leave?' Sherlock asked. 

'Well, about ten minutes later Mary came through, and he left.' 

'Did you see him leave the stables? Do you know where he went to?' Sherlock pried.

Jack shook his head again, 'I don't know where he went after.' 

'How long was it after he had left when you fell asleep?' Sherlock asked bluntly.

The blush was back. _Poor sod_ John thought to himself. 

'Well, it must have been,’ Jack pursed his lips, looking down, ‘Around half an hour. I couldn't say exactly. Mary and I talked for about twenty minutes, but she had to go. It was pretty soon after that.' Jack frowned, 'Now I think about it, I was feeling tired when I was talking to her.’ Jack nodded, looking back to Sherlock, ‘I remember, she said I should drink the coffee because I was looking a little low.' 

Sherlock regarded the boy for a moment, eyes flicking across his face. Jack didn’t flinch under Sherlock’s gaze, but sat determinedly staring straight back, face sure. Sherlock’s eyes softened around the edges and he nodded, 'Thank you for your time, Jack. You've been most useful.'

Sherlock shot a sidelong glance at Lestrade as he said that, sniffing loudly. Lestrade pointedly ignored him, instead, thanking Jack and asking him to join him at the reception desk. 

Before Jack could follow Lestrade out of the door, John called to him. 

'Jack, would you say that Jonathan had been under stress- anymore than usual?' Jack turned in the doorway to face John.

 ‘Stressed?’ He repeated, confused, 'Well, no, not anymore than he usually does around major events.' Jack said, shrugging. 

'Then you wouldn't say he'd been a bit, uh, _peaky_ recently?' John said, carefully.

Jack didn't reply for a while as he thought. Finally, he replied slowly, 'No. Not really. He sometimes seems a little stressed around the National, or other big races. Shorter temper, you know. But not run down by it. He’s pretty used to it by now.'

John smiled and thanked him, Jack nodded and left and Sherlock eyed John with curiosity.

*    *   *

Sherlock and John left the police station soon after, deciding to walk back to their hotel, Lestrade saying he would meet them there later. 

On the walk back, they discussed what they'd just heard. 

John was still pondering the heath of Straker. He had been so uneasy when John had seen him at the clinic, verging on frantic. John clearly remembered the look in his eyes, as they flicked around nervously, unable to settle or even meet John’s gaze for any length of time. How could this have been the same man that Jack had spoken about? Jack had said he hadn't been under any exceptional amount of stress, but Straker had thought it was bad enough to need to visit a doctor’s, and even need to ask for medication.

John stopped dead. Sherlock, who had been in mid-flow of conversation, looked round at him, eying him in slight confusion. 

'Are you alright, John?' He said, with concern in his voice. 

John nodded. Then shook his head. He grabbed Sherlock by the arm, pulling him round to face him.

 'Sherlock-- what if--’ John swallowed, trying to realign his thoughts, ‘what if Straker slipped sleeping pills into Jack’s coffee, and that's why he fell asleep?' He looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, searching for confirmation at this absurd notion. Sherlock looked down at John for a long moment, his face growing more surprised by the second. 

John shook his head, looking away. Why would Straker have done that? It was a ridiculous conclusion to jump to, why he'd even though of that he-- but John’s thoughts were cut off abruptly as Sherlock grasped him both gently and firmly by his face. John looked up in confusion, his eyes then widening in realisation as Sherlock leaned down towards him with such determination and a round eyed look John couldn’t quite place.

John unconsciously tipped his head back as Sherlock lowered his mouth carefully to meet John’s, fingers gently brushing across his cheeks and pulling him closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOWOWOW am I right?   
> Bit of a cliffhanger there, guess you'll just have to hang on and wait till the next one...


	10. Chapter 10

John unconsciously tipped his head back as Sherlock lowered his mouth carefully to meet John’s, fingers gently brushing across his cheeks and pulling him closer...  
John didn't think. He couldn't.   
Sherlock’s mouth on his. Sherlock’s hands on his face. Sherlock’s coat as John ran his hands over it. Sherlock kissed like he knew what he wanted, but didn’t quite know the right way of getting it. His tongue darted out eagerly, tracing John’s bottom lip, but then stilled as soon as John opened his mouth. John reached up and snaked his fingers through Sherlock’s messy hair, curling his fingers around it and tugging him closer to himself.  
It was blissful oblivion. No thoughts, just trying to remember every feeling and sensation and commit it to memory, because he never wanted to forget this.  
Blissful oblivion until Sherlock pulled away, his hands moving from John’s face to his lower arms, stepping back to allow space between them. Millions of thoughts thundered back into John’s mind, the peace broken as soon as the cool breeze replaced the warmth of Sherlock. But right at the front, more important than any of the questions he wanted to ask was a very loud and insistent voice pointing out how much John was now already missing the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth locked to his.   
John blinked up at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked down at John. They were both breathing rapidly, shallow breaths that ghosted over one another’s faces in the small distance between them.  
Sherlock grinned at John, wide and unashamedly happy.   
'John, you're brilliant.'   
'Never thought I'd catch you saying that,' A grin now crept across John’s face.   
'You truly are,' Sherlock ran his hands through his hair as he turned from John, eyes fliting over the pavement as he thought, 'Of course! Obvious.' He murmured to himself. 'Right. I've got a few calls to make.'  
John stood straighter, stunned from the speed at which Sherlock snapped straight back to detective mode. Sherlock strode away, his coat billowing out behind him, John watched him go, wondering what spark of illumination he’d just provided. Sherlock turned before getting too far and grasped John’s hand. 'Come along John,' he breathed, shooting John a wink.  
Shaking his head in amusement, John jogged along to catch up with him.   
Sherlock pulled out his phone as his long strides carried him down the road, swiftly pressing buttons and held it to his ear.  
'Ah Mycroft! We need to have a little chat...'   
John listened intently to the half of the conversation he could hear, and tried to snatch snippets of the other half.   
'I need to ask a favour of you,' Sherlock said, visibly cringing at his words. He paused for a moment, John unable to hear Mycroft’s reply, but was amused none the less by Sherlock’s reaction to it, his nose wrinkling up, rolling his eyes at his words.  
'Would you be able to find out a few things for me?' Sherlock said heavily, through gritted teeth. Mycroft’s reply had clearly been scathing, and probably sarcastic, as Sherlock rolled his eyes and flared his nose.   
'I’ll text you the details,' Sherlock said briskly, now starting to fidget at his eagerness to end the call, 'Yes. Okay.'   
Before Sherlock could say goodbye, John held out his hand, gesturing at the phone. Sherlock’s brow raised in question, and pointed at the phone.   
John nodded.   
'Well, I have to go now, but it appears John would like to talk to you... No, I have no idea,' Sherlock grinned at the randomness of John’s question as he handed the phone over to John.   
He held it up to his ear, 'Mycroft?'   
'John,' Mycroft replied smoothly from the other end of the phone. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'  
'Oh, the pleasure’s all mine, Mycroft. I just wanted to thank you for the lovely room you got us.' Mycroft paused before replying.  
'You're most welcome, John.' Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, and one eyebrow had risen. His eyes flicked between the phone and John, as he moved slightly closer to try and catch what Mycroft was saying.   
'Well, actually, there's been a small issue with it,' John continued, a grin starting to spread across his face. 'See, the hotels made a bit if a mix up. They've only given us one of the regular rooms.'  
'Oh, dear me,' Mycroft drawled, now catching on with what John was getting at.   
'If you could sort that out for us when you get the chance, the deluxe rooms look so nice,' John said, having to bite down to stop himself laughing out loud.   
'I’ll get on it straight away,' Mycroft said with the same smooth tone. If John didn’t know any better, he’d have almost missed the subtle wryness with which he spoke, giving John courage to add; 'Oh, and Mycroft?'  
'Yes John?'  
'Just the one deluxe room, thanks,' John promptly ended the call and burst out laughing, both from the snorts he'd been trying to repress during the call and the look of horror on Sherlock’s face from his last remark.   
He looked up at Sherlock, and without even thinking about it, grasped the collar of his coat and pulled him down so their faces were level with his and kissed him gently. He could feel Sherlock’s smile against his lips, before he responded eagerly, wrapping his arms around John to pull him in closer.   
John had no idea how much time had passed before Sherlock pulled away and rested his forehead against John’s.   
'You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that,' Sherlock murmured.  
'What made you wait?' It was not until that moment that John realised that this is what he'd been missing in his life. That this was exactly what he wanted what he needed.   
They stood for some time, catching their breath, breathing in each other’s air and scent, until Sherlock pulled away.   
'As much fun as this really is, we do have a case to solve,' he said with a small smile.   
'Yes, but we also have a luxury room back the hotel.' John said, grinning back.  
'That is a very good point,' Sherlock said straightening up to his full height, and looking down at John, 'You really are on fire today.'   
John bit his lip. 'No, you're right. This can wait.' He said with a sigh.  
'Debatable,' Sherlock murmured, tipping his head to the side.   
John caught hold of Sherlock’s arm. 'Come along Sherlock! You were busy making deductions,' he said, a gleam appearing in his eye.   
Sherlock grinned down at him. 'Right you are, John. As usual.'   
Sherlock took Johns hand in his, interlocking their fingers. 'Right you are,' he repeated gently.   
'So,’ said John, with more enthusiasm than he would care to admit, tugging Sherlock along with him, 'brilliant deductions?'   
'Brilliant deductions,' Sherlock agreed flippantly, with a small quirk to his lips. With a few long strides, Sherlock took the lead, now tugging John behind him.   
'Where exactly are these brilliant deductions taking us, by the way?' John asked, quickening his pace to keep up with Sherlock, and avoid his arm being pulled out.   
'Well, no better place than the beginning,' Sherlock said, sliding his phone out of his coat pocket and tossed it to John, who caught it with his free hand.  
'Text Lestrade and tell him to meet us at Capleton stables. Oh, and get him to bring his car.'   
* * * *  
Lestrade was there when Sherlock and John arrived at Capleton stables. He was just climbing out of his car as they walked over to him.   
He turned to face them, asking, 'So why have you-' but stopped short as he noticed their joined hands.   
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if daring him to comment.   
Lestrade snapped his mouth shut, nodded, and gestured to them to lead the way. John thought he heard him murmur, 'took bloody long enough,’ under his breath as they turned away. But John didn't see the smile that spread across Lestrade’s face, mentally tallying up the money he was going to win when he got back to the Yard. Lestrade shook his head fondly at the two men, and followed them to the stables.   
Sherlock knocked loudly on the Colonel’s door. There was no reply so he knocked harder. On the third round of knocking Colonel Ross appeared from around the side of the building, looking flustered.  
'Lestrade, I wasn't expecting you,' Colonel Ross said looking between the three men with a befuddled look upon his face.  
'Neither was I,' Lestrade said, trying to sound comforting. The colonel didn't look comforted, just more confused than before. John frowned at Lestrade as he tried to work out what he meant. Sherlock hadn't been listening to what was being said and instead took advantage of everyone facing Lestrade to sneak a look at John. Lestrade cleared his throat, and in an attempt to clarify, added, 'This is slightly an impromptu meeting, sorry, wasn't able to let you know.'  
The Colonel nodded his head, looking slightly less bewildered. John smiled apologetically to him. Sherlock continued to watch John.   
'I- how- How can I help?' The Colonel said, clasping his hands together, and giving them a half hearted smile.   
'It’s we who can be helping you, Colonel,' Sherlock said in his most charming voice, turning away from John and watching the man intently as he sunk his hands into his pockets.   
'We've found the murderer.'   
The phrases 'What?', 'I'm sorry' and 'Hang on' we're blurted out in unison from the three other men. Sherlock smiled smugly at their reactions. John rolled his eyes and unsuccessfully attempted to prevent a fond smile quirking his lips.   
After a moment’s pause, long enough for Lestrade to run the conversation through in his head again and come to the conclusion that yes Sherlock had just said that, and for the colonel to look between Sherlock and Lestrade about six times, John piped up. 'Care to elaborate Sherlock?'   
Looking slightly irritated that it had taken that long for someone to ask, Sherlock nodded and straightened his back. 'Colonel, I know where your horse is and the location of the murderer of your trainer,' he repeated calmly.   
'And when did you do that?' Lestrade asked wearily, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. 'Only recently, Lestrade, I assure you,' Sherlock retorted smoothly.  
Lestrade looked to John for confirmation, who raised his hands in a defeated fashion, and screwed his face up in a way that said I know just as much as you do.   
'Well, who- where is he?' Colonel Ross blurted his face a mixture of excitement, nerves and eagerness.   
'Lestrade, if you could drive us, I can take you to both.' Sherlock said smoothly, gesturing for Lestrade to lead them to the car.   
John hung back to walk with Sherlock, and elbowed him in the ribs. Sherlock look sideways down at him, and eyebrow a questioningly quirked. 'You are a complete show off,' John hissed at him. Sherlock smirked slightly before murmuring back, 'Don't pretend you don't love it.'   
'Now I never said I didn't,' John grinned back. 'Anyway, come on. We've got a murderer to arrest.' 

The four men piled into the police car and Lestrade started the engine. He then realised that he didn’t know where they were going and swapped so Sherlock could drive them. He had tried to ask Sherlock to tell him where they were going, but, being ever the drama queen; Sherlock had insisted that he drive instead. John sat in that back and chuckled at Lestrade sulking over Sherlock’s smug face.   
Half way through the drive it slowly dawned on John where they were going. His suspicions turned out to be true when they turned into the drive of Silas Brown’s stable, Marlebrown Stables.   
‘That- I knew it!’Colonel Ross exploded as he scrabbled at the door handle and threw it open before the car had come to a stop. He tugged off his seat belt he and fell out of the car in his eagerness. He stormed up to the door of the stables whilst everyone else clambered out too.   
He was hammering on the door as they joined him, ‘Colonel Ross,’ Lestrade began, reaching over to stop him as Silas Brown appeared from the back of the stables.   
‘You!’ Colonel Ross shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Brown. ‘I just knew it! You were so jealous of my horse that you- you-‘  
Silas Brown looked terrified of the raging man standing before him. ‘M-mr Homes,’he stuttered. ‘Wh-what is going on? You said you wouldn’t bring the police into this if-’ everyone’s heads snapped towards Sherlock, Colonel Ross who was steadily turning a deeper rouge (if that were even possible) burst out, ‘What is the meaning of this!?’  
Sherlock cleared his throat in the way he did before that told John that deductions were coming. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock showed no sign of noticing except for a slight quirk of his lips.   
‘Silas Brown is not our murderer. Our murderer is here however.’He looked over to Brown. ‘Would you be able to lead us to him?’   
As they began to walk away, Lestrade caught hold of Sherlock’s elbow and hissed, ‘Are you telling me you’ve been letting a killer walk around here for days? Even weeks, and not told me?’ John heard the conversation and looked over his shoulder, frowning at Sherlock.   
‘Don’t worry,’ Sherlock reassured, tugging his arm of Lestrade’s grip.   
Lestrade shook his head in irritation and glanced over to John, who shrugged and murmured, ‘Best let him get on with it.’   
Sherlock strode ahead, leading the way into the stables, Colonel Ross following close at his heels, looking irritated and disgruntled. Behind him Brown shuffled along, eyes downcast, his gaze occasionally flicking up before falling back to the ground.   
They all crowded into the stables, Sherlock standing smugly in the centre of the group, the sound of horses scuffing their feet and grunting from each of the stalls echoing around the large barn.  
Sherlock walked away through the barn until he reached the third stall away, ‘This one, Mr Brown?’ he asked everyone’s eyes fixed upon him.  
‘Aye, that’s the one,’ Brown mumbled with a slight nod of his head.   
‘Lestrade, Colonel Ross, I give you our murderer,’ Sherlock announced, unbolting the door and pushing it open. It gave out a reluctant creak.   
Everyone held their breath: the Colonel leaned forwards on his toes and Lestrade reached for the gun discretely hidden under his coat.   
Their looks of expectancy changed to confusion as Sherlock made a small chirruping noise, clicking his tongue.   
A sleek horse stepped slowly out of the stall, shaking his dark grey mane; tail flicking as he nudging Sherlock with his nose. The horse was huge, probably one of the biggest John had ever seen. But again, horses were not John’s area of expertise, mostly only ever seeing them on the television.  
Its snout came up to Sherlock’s shoulder, and he lifted a hand to pat it gently as the horse continued to try and get his attention.   
‘Blaze!’Colonel Ross cried surging forward to touch the horses flank. He ran a hand down its lightly coloured back, checking all over to make sure it was unharmed and well.   
John could see where Silver Blaze got its name from; his flanks shimmered softly in the dim light in the stall, changing through different shades of grey, white and silvers as he shifted under inspection.  
Once the Colonel was satisfied with the wellbeing of his horse he turned on Silas Brown, anger clouding over his face and replacing the relief that had shone there a few moments before. ‘How dare you,’ he growled, voice dangerously low. Brown trembled where he stood, looking over at Sherlock for help.   
‘Colonel,’ Sherlock said quickly, stepping between the two men, “Brown did not take your horse, I assure you. He was merely looking after him, and I think you would agree he has taken good care of him for you.”  
‘Of course he would take good care of him. He would need him to be fit so he could race him!’Colonel Ross snapped, steadily moving into deeper stages of fury.   
Sherlock sighed irritatedly, eyes narrowing briefly before saying, ‘Brown, if you could so kindly explain to us what happened last week?’  
Brown nodded, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to steel himself. He swallowed before he began; ‘On the morning after Straker’s death I had gone out for a walk on the moor. It was a nice morning. I had no knowledge of the events that had happened,’ he added with a glance in Lestrade’s direction.   
‘It was quite early in the morning, around six maybe,’ He said, brow furrowing momentarily as he remembered, “No one else was out on the moors, but as I was walking back I found Silver Blaze wondering down one of the smaller roads away from the town. I brought him back to my stables, as they were nearer than yours, intending to let the Colonel know as soon as I got back to tell him that I had his horse. I couldn’t work out why he would have let his horse wonder the moors unaccompanied, but there was no way I would have kept him,” He said, looking directly at the Colonel a sincere expression on his face.  
‘Then why didn’t you let me know?’ the colonel demanded.  
‘When I got back I had heard the news about Straker, and,’ He looked slightly sheepish, ‘I thought if I were to let you know I would have been a suspect, when I hadn’t had anything to do with it.’ He spoke quickly, not looking at anyone directly.  
Colonel Ross let out a disbelieving huff, but Silas carried on with his story. ‘Then a couple of days ago Mr Holmes came over, and he said to me that he knew I had the horse, I don’t know how he found out, but he said that if I looked after it for a few more days then I wouldn’t get into any trouble.’ He finished his story, and his eyes darted back to Sherlock, who nodded and smiled to Lestrade and the Colonel.  
‘When I came over I inspected Blaze here and found just what I had expected.’  
He nodded to Brown, who walked over to the horse and lifted up his front leg and rested the hoof on his knee so they could all see. Sherlock pointed to it, and they could see a slight discolouration around the edge.  
‘Blood,’Sherlock stated, folding his hands behind his back and straightening his shoulders, ‘Blood I strongly believe belonged to Mr Straker. And when I was examining Straker at Bart’s I found small flecks of mud imbedded below the fractures of his skull, unlikely to have gotten there from falling onto the earth, no matter how muddy it was that night.’ He nodded again to Brown, who gently put down Blazes leg and moved quickly away from the horse after receiving a dangerous look from Colonel Ross.   
‘So, the horse killed him?’Lestrade asked slowly, a look of slowly dawning understanding sweeping across his face.  
‘Yes Lestrade. I had already given you that piece of information-’Sherlock began with a sharp tone before John cut him off.  
‘So that would be why there were no other foot prints,’ John stated nodding, some of the previous mysteries now becoming clearer, although others remaining as confusing as ever.  
‘But,’ John said, tipping his head to the side as he looked at Sherlock, ‘Why would the horse kill him? He was the trainer, so surely Blaze would be used to him by now? And why would he have taken the horse out of its stable during the night?’  
John was sure he saw a small smile twitch the corners of Sherlock’s lips before they straightened out into a non committal line. Sherlock gave a shrug.  
‘I can’t say I know why he took the horse out. But there’s always the possibility that something on the moor could have spooked it, making him rear up and accidentally hit Straker. You never know what could be lurking up on those moors, after all,’Sherlock said matter of factly, catching John’s eye during his last comment and John had to look away quickly in order to keep a straight face.  
Sherlock turned to Lestrade, smoothing down the front of his coat with a gleam in his eyes that always accompanied a case well solved, ‘Is there anything else you need to know Lestrade?’  
Lestrade thought for a moment before shaking his head. ‘I think that’s everything. Just need to get the horse back to its stable and then we can head back.’  
‘Excellent,’ Sherlock said, turning away but then pausing to turn back, ‘John,’he said simply, a small smile forming across his lips as he said John’s name. John grinned back before following Sherlock out of the stables and out into the evening.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock straightened his tie again, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Suits he liked ties he didn't. Too constricting and too easy to be garrotted with it. Sherlock checked the time on his phone. Where was John? Why was he taking so long? Sherlock pondered, before he heard a squeak on the stairs upstairs. He turned around expectantly and his breath caught in his throat.  
John stood sheepishly in the door way, looking... Sherlock’s brain failed to give him an adjective that could accurately describe how attractive John looked. Sherlock racked his memory to try and come up with a suitable phrase. All Sherlock could think of were John’s outcries of 'brilliant' and 'amazing' , but they were not sincere enough to properly describe him and ‘handsome’ seemed to fall far short.  
He wore a soft grey suit, incredibly well fitting, and undoubtedly new, Sherlock had never seen him wear it before.  
Sherlock cleared his throat, managing to croak out "New suit?"  
John nodded, a small smile creeping on his lips. He brushed some lint from the sleeve and tugged on the bottom of the jacket to readjust it.  
"It--" Sherlock gestured with his hand towards it and cleared his throat again, "--it looks good."  
John grinned, standing up straighter pride practically radiating off him.  
"Thanks," John looked at his reflection in the mirror, taking a moment to admire the suit "Present from Mycroft. He, uh, took me to a tailor the other day," John admitted.  
Sherlock strode over and reached to feel that material of the cuff, running it between his finger and thumb.  
"Mycroft did always know some of the best tailors," Sherlock said appraisingly with a nod of his head. He slid his hand up the sleeve of John’s jacket and rested it on his shoulder. He pulled John closer and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, relishing his ability to be able to "It suits you well."  
John thumped him in the shoulder, “Don’t start that, for God’s sake.”  
Sherlock sniggered, moving his hand from John’s shoulder to his back; he gently turned him around and ushered him out of the flat.  
"Yeah, yeah. Now come on, we're going to be late."  
Sherlock threw out his arm, hailing the first cab to come past.  
* * *

Lestrade came over I greet them soon after they arrived.  
"You just missed Mycroft," he said as he shook their hands.  
"Good," Sherlock said simply. His eyes flicked over Lestrade quickly, adding, "Though I'm sure he'll come and find you again."  
"Hm?" Lestrade asked, tipping his head to the side not really hearing what he had said. John elbowed Sherlock in the side saying quickly "Oh, nothing!"  
Lestrade still seemed distracted and didn't really hear John either, but instead admired John’s appearance. "Nice suit, John."  
"Thanks," John said with a grin.  
Lestrade spotted a waiter working his way between the crowds of smartly dressed people, excusing himself with an "Oh look, champagne!"  
"Looks like he's had a few of them already," John noted. Sherlock sniggered.  
"Hey, is that the Colonel over there?" John nodded over to a small group of people: smartly dressed men in suits and attractive women in dresses with an array of varying hats, all whom were holding champagne glasses. Some had pieces of paper in their hands, John guessing that they were betting slips.  
"We should go over and thank him for inviting us." John straightened his suit jacket.  
Sherlock made a noise of objection, but when John linked their arms he followed obediently.  
John cleared his throat loudly when they drew close to the Colonel, catching his attention and he turned to see who had made the noise.  
"Holmes!" Colonel Ross cried after spotting who it was.  
He ushered them into the circle of people and introduced them to the group at large.  
"This is that detective I was telling you all about, the one who found my Silver Blaze. Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and his assistant-"  
"Partner," Interjected Sherlock, "John Watson; couldn't have solved it without him." Sherlock shot John a quick smile; only because John knew Sherlock so well could detect a fondness in it that went beyond casual work-partners.  
The gaggle of people gave them a quick round of applause, Sherlock’s face returned back to its normal expression of disinterest.  
The chatter of the group started up again, everyone conversing amongst themselves.  
"Have you placed a bet yet?" The colonel asked Sherlock and John, a look of childish excitement on his face.  
"Excellent odds; I would highly recommend it." The colonel leaned closer to them, speaking in a hushed whisper that was just as loud as his normal voice. "I'll add this too, Sweetbriar, one of my Blaze's only real competition has been withdrawn from the race! So I’d say it's going to be a sure thing today."  
"How come he's had to withdraw?" John asked, out of politeness more than real interest.  
The colonel shrugged.  
"No idea. But it was quite a last minute decision, he was pulled out yesterday or the day before I believe. Not that I'm complaining!"  
"How curious," Sherlock said with a voice that lacked any curiosity at all "Well, we'll head over to the betting office now."  
"Better be quick, the race is starting soon!" The colonel said brightly.  
Sherlock nodded, placing a hand on John’s shoulder and leading him away from the group of people.  
A little distance away from the Colonel John asked, "Are you going to place a bet then?"  
Sherlock nodded again "Blaze has got good odds, and the colonel seemed confident he would win."  
"Of course he would. He owns the horse," John pointed out.  
"Well, actually” Sherlock added in an undertone, “when I spoke to Brown he said he was one of the most powerful horses he'd ever seen, so I think he’s quite a safe bet."  
"Ah," John nodded, "How much are you going to bet, then?"  
***  
Sherlock tucked the betting slip into his chest pocket on his jacket and they made their way over to the stands by the track. 

All the horses were being led to their starting boxes and someone was announcing the name and colours of each horse.  
They settled in their seats. John realised they had a good view; the Colonel had made sure they had, giving them VIP tickets for the day.  
They sat for some moments in companionable science, John listening to the announcer and Sherlock watching the people around them.  
After a while, John broke the peace with a question.  
"Sherlock, there's a few things I still don't get."  
Sherlock turned to face John, raising an eyebrow in question.  
"Why did Straker get sleeping pills? Why did he come to London to get them?" John paused briefly to collect his thoughts before carrying on. "And I know you said that the horse could have been spooked, but Blaze wasn't just any horse, he raced regularly and knew starker! I just don't see why or how he could have been spooked he could kill Straker."  
A grin spread across Sherlock’s face.  
"John, you're finally asking the right questions."  
"That doesn't help, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes.  
"There might have been a few things I failed to mention when explaining the other day."  
John glowered suspiciously at Sherlock. “Like what?”  
"You see John, it was the dog."  
"The dog?"  
"Yes. It was the curious incident of the dog in the night time."  
"Isn't that a book?" John said with a smirk.  
"No. Anyway, stop interrupting." Sherlock paused to glare at John.  
"What was so curious about the dog," Sherlock said after a pause in which he realised John wasn't going to ask him what was so curious, "was that it did not make any noise. You saw that dog, and heard it too. When we were there it wouldn't stop barking. It was loud enough to wake someone, like a sleeping stable hand or even a person living nearby, but not a sound was apparently heard from it."  
"Ok, I think I follow," John said, brow furrowed.  
"So the dog didn't bark at the intruder... Could it have been knocked out or something like that?" John suggested carefully.  
"Possible. But, when we saw the dog, not too long after that night, it was not sporting any injuries, which would rule out that possibility."  
"Ok," John said again, not really sure where this was leading.  
"Another thing -"  
"Wow, no don't start on something else before-" John interrupted but Sherlock held up a hand.  
"The knife we found"  
“The cataract knife?” John asked, getting immediately distracted.  
"Yes. As you know, it’s used in small operations, but could also be used to sever small tendons in an animal’s back leg, causing them to go lame."  
John sat in confusion for a moment, until a memory suddenly dawned on him.  
"The sheep! That man said they’d been going lame, that's why the vet was coming to have a look."  
“Exactly.” Sherlock said swiftly, clasping his hands together.  
“But that means Straker was going and making sheep go lame. Why the hell would he be doing that? And why would he have the knife on him then?” John said, frowning at Sherlock again.  
“Practice, John.”  
“Practise for what?” John asked, becoming more and more confused the more Sherlock went on. John marvelled at Sherlock’s thought pattern quite often, but most of the time he was just pissed off by it because it took so long for Sherlock to explain himself.  
“Well, you see John, I don’t think Straker was the model horse trainer everyone believed him to be.”  
John wrinkled his nose, “What?”  
“I believe that he was practising severing the tendons in smaller animals so he could accurately cut the tendon on Silver Blaze, rendering him incapable of taking part in the race,” Sherlock gestured down to the track in front of them. “Meaning he would have to forfeit, leaving a certain other horse free to win.”  
Johns jaw had dropped open. “What- Wha- Straker was working against the Colonel?” John hissed, keeping his voice low.  
“Sadly, I think so.” Sherlock said with a curt nod.  
“Horses, you see, are very good at judging and sensing emotions in people. You're not wrong when you say that Blaze wouldn't be spooked so easily by something on the moor. I believe when Straker led him out onto the moor, he could sense that Straker was not acting like himself; he was probably quite tense and jittery. You saw what he could get like when he came to the practise the other day.”  
John nodded as he thought about Straker’s uneasy attitude, the way he fidgeted and was on edge.  
“The horse was probably spooked by that, especially when Straker held a knife to his leg. He’s just an animal after all, trying to fight off the predator. A quick kick of the hind legs of a strong horse like Blaze would be enough to inflict the damage we saw on his skull. The cut he received may have been him falling on the Knife, or it slipping when the horse moved. Either way, the knife was very near his person when he fell.”  
John was still nodding slowly when Sherlock stopped speaking, a smile creeping up on his lips. He was looking down at the horses on the track, but not really seeing them, his eyes glazed over as he thought.  
“So, the sleeping tablets...?” He asked slowly after a long pause, finally looking back over to Sherlock.  
“Used them to drug our friend Jack. Slipped them into his coffee, waited until he fell asleep, and took the horse. Couldn’t take it with someone watching. I suppose he planned to bring the horse back, leave Jack to wake up and find the horse lame and no one would be any the wiser.”  
“Plan didn’t really work out so great for him.” John mused.  
“Not really,” Sherlock agreed with a small smirk.  
“Ok, I get why he didn’t go to his local GP, because they’d probably know him too well, or could say something, but why was he in London? He could have just gone a few towns over or something.”  
“Ah, well, I put in a few calls to Mycroft. Turns out Mr Straker had been receiving large amounts of money to a small bank account that no one knew about. Well, no one that doesn’t have the British government as a brother.”  
“Someone was paying him to do this?”  
“Of course John,” Sherlock chastised. “There are very few reasons people will do thing; personal revenge, money or love. Straker had had no quarrels with Colonel Ross whilst he worked there, love was a possibility, but when Mycroft found the bank account it was clear that it was money.”  
“Who was paying?” John asked, getting tired of having to prod each answer out of Sherlock.  
“A rather rich bachelor who lives in London; who just so happens to own a horse that sadly couldn’t make it to today’s race.”  
“You didn’t!”  
Sherlock grinned. “Not me personally, but Mycroft pulled a few strings”  
John laughed, Sherlock’s grin broadening.  
“One more thing,” John said he had finished laughing. “Why didn’t you tell Lestrade or Colonel Ross any of this?” It was most unlike Sherlock to keep something like this to himself, and not boast his intelligence when solving a case.  
“Well,” Sherlock paused, looking down at his hands in a sheepish very un-Sherlock like fashion.  
“I suppose Ross had just lost his trainer, and only got his horse back a few days before an important race... And he and Straker had a very old relationship; Straker had been working for him for over a decade. After the guy died I didn’t want to ruin Ross’ memory of him. Mycroft has sorted out Thomas Meredith, who was paying Straker, so really there seemed no point.” Sherlock finished with a small shrug.  
John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, Sherlock fidgeting under his gaze, and then, without a word, John grabbed him by the collar and tugged him down into a long kiss. The old Sherlock John had known would never even consider something like that, let alone followed through with it.  
Sherlock held tightly onto John, wrapping his arms around him and both men were so occupied that they missed the pistol that signalled the beginning of the race.  
When they finally parted, John looked down to see the all the trainers and horse owners flooding onto the track, and the people around them were cheering, or in some cases ripping up small betting slips in a temper. The score of the race where displayed on a small screen on the edge of the track.  
“Huh,” said John, straightening out Sherlock’s ruffled shirt, “Would you look at that! The Silver Blaze won!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooh! All done!  
> Hope you enjoyed the story, it was good fun to write  
> Feel free to leave comments and feedback, it's really appreciated.


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